THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO   •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON    •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


BY 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON   ROBINSON 


l^orfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1921 


All  rights  reserved 


FEINTED  IN   THE  UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,  1896,  1897,  1902,  and  1915, 
BY  EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 


COPYRIGHT,  1910, 
BY  CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  THOMAS  SELTZER 


COPYRIGHT,   1916,   1917,    1920,   and   1921, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1921. 


College 
Library 


i 


The  author  begs  to  acknowledge  his  indebtedness  to  Messrs. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  permission  to  include  in  this  col 
lection  the  contents  of  the  volumes  entitled  "The  Children  of 
the  Night,"  and  "The  Town  Do\vn  the  River,"  to  Mr.  Thomas 
Seltzer  for  permission  to  include  the  poem  entitled  "Lance 
lot,"  and  to  the  editors  of  Scribner's  Magazine,  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  The  Yale  Review,  The  North  American  Review, 
The  Nation,  The  Dial,  The  New  Republic,  The  Bookman,  The 
Outlook,  Collier's,  Poetry.  The  Literary  Review,  and  other 
periodicals,  for  permission  to  reprint  several  poems. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY   (1916) 1 

monde 3 

Gift  of  God 6 

The  Clinging  Vine 8 

Cassandra          11 

John   Gorharn         13 

x  Stafford's  Cabin 14 

Hillcrest 15 

AOld  King  Cole 17 

Jonson  Entertains  a  Man  from  Stratford     ....  20 

Sros   Turannos 32 

Trails 33 

The  Unforgiven 37 

Theophilus 39 

Veteran   Sirens 40 

Siege  Perilous 41 

Another  Dark  Lady 41 

The  Voice  of  Age 42 

CSThe  Dark  House 43 

QThe  Poor  Relation 45 

The  Burning  Book .      .      .      .  47 

Fragment 48 

Lisette  and  Eileen 49 

Llewellyn  and  the  Tree 50 

tf-Bewick    Finzer 55 

Bokardo 56 

The  Man  Against  the  Sky 60 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  NIGHT   (1890-1897) 71 

rKTohn    Evereldown 73 

•?tt»uke  Havergal 74 

Three    Quatrains 75 

An   Old    Story 76 

Ballade    by   the    Fire 76 

Q  Ballade  of  Broken  Flutes 77 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

VHer  Eyes 78 

Two  Men 80 

Villanelle   of   Change 80 

iThe   House   on  ^the-  Hill    - 81 

WRichard   Uorey 82 

Boston          .      .      .,,.... .  83 

|Calvary        .      .      .      .      k      .      .      .      .      .      .      ....  83 

"^iPear  Friends 83 

The  Story  of  the  Ashes  and  the  Flame 84 

jCAmaryllis          84 

JrVrZola ;      .  85 

hThe   Pity   of   the   Leaves v     .  85 

on  Stark     .........   : ...      .      .  86 

"The   Garden      . '.....  86 

Cliff  Klingenhagen 87 

Charles   Carville's   Eyes        .      . .  87 

()The   Dead   Village       ......' 88 

vTwo  Sonnets 89 

The  Clerks Vj   ........  90 

Fleming  Helphenstine J.-     .....  90 

T— Tftumas   Hood .      .      .      .      .      .  91 

Horace  to  Leuconoe '.      .  91 

Reuben  Bright 92 

()The  Altar 92 

The  Tavern 93 

Sonnet 93 

Jeorge  Crabbe       .      . .      .      .      .  94 

(Credo .'....  94 

On  the  Night  of  a  Friend's  Wedding      ......  95 

Sonnet          .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      ...  95 

(kiierlaine      .    ' 96 

^Sonnet .      .      ...      .      ...  96 

^Supremacy .      ,      k  97 

The  Chorus  of  Old  Men  in  "^Egeus"     .      .      .     '*      .      .      .  97 

The  Wilderness      .........      .      .      .      .  99 

Octaves 100 

The  Torrent      .      .      .      .      .      ..',....      .      .  108 

L'envoy 108 


CBAIG,  ETC.    (1902)      .     .     .      .  '  .     -.     .     .     .      .  Ill 

^Captain  Craig       .  - .      .      .      .      .      .      ...      .      .      .  113 

*  Isaac^  and  Ar^hihg.lci 169 

Return  of  Morgan  and  Fingal 181 

t    Imogen 184 

he  Klondike  .  189 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Atherton's  Gambit 353 

For  a   Dead   Lady 355 

Two  Gardens  in  Linndale 355 

The  Revealer 359 

LANCELOT    (1920)          363 

^Lancelot 365 

THE  THREE  TAVERNS  (1920) 451 

The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 453 

The  Wandering  Jew 456 

Neighbors 459 

The  Mill 460 

^Jfhe  Dark  Hills 461 

The  Three  Taverns 461 

Demos 471 

'iiic  wlying  Dutchman 472 

-"Tact  / 473 

On  the  Way 474 

John  Brown 486 

The  False  Gods 491 

Archibald's  Example 492 

-""London  Bridge 493 

Tasker  Norcross  499 

A  Song  at  Shannon's 509 

Souvenir 509 

Discovery 510 

Firelight 510 

The  New  Tenants 511 

Inferential  511 

The  Rat 512 

Rahel  to  Varnhagen 513 

Nimmo  520 

Peace  on  Earth 523 

Late  Summer  525 

An  Evangelist's  Wife 528 

The  Old  King's  New  Jester 528 

Lazarus •  .  .  530 

AVON'S  HARVEST,  ETC.   (1921) 541 

Avon's  Harvest 543 

Mr.   Flood's  Party 573 

Ben  Trovato 575 

The  Tree  in  Pamela's  Garden 576 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

The   Growth  of   "Lorraine" 191 

he  Sage .      ,     ,      ,     .      .     „  192 

asmus ..-:.:  ,      .      .t   •  1**^ 

The  Woman  and  The  Wife    .      .     ...     .      .      .      . •;    .      .      .  194 


Sainte-Nitouche £ 

As  a  World  Would  Have  It 2) 

The   Corridor 22v 

Cortege 221 

Partnership 222 

^Twilight  Song .      .     '',      .  .»..      .    .  .  223 

Variations  of  Greek  Themes 225 

The  Field  of  Glory V     .     .',      .      .231 

MEBLIN    (1917)        .      .      . '..-..  233 

Merlin .      .  « '  .      .  235 

THE  TOWN  DOWN  THE  RIVER  (1910) k...-:'  31i; 

The  Master 317 

A  The  Town  Down  the  River    . 319 

\)An  Island 323 

Calverly's          -    .  330 

f-Leffingwell         331 

Clavering 333 

Lingard  and  the  Stars 334 

Pasa   Thalassa   Thalassa 335 

Momus         336 

Uncle  Ananias 337 

The    Whip         338 

The  White  Lights 340 

Exit 340 

Leonora 341 

The  Wise  Brothers 341 

^jBut  for  the  Grace  of  God 342 

Tor  Arvia 344 

The  Sunken  Crown 344 

Doctor  of  Billiards     ............  345 

^Shadrach   O'Leary 345 

low  ^-iinandale  Went  Out 346 

*Alma  Mater 346 

-WWiniver  Cheevy     .      .      „     ,      .      *.:.;..    .      .      .      .      .  347 

I'he  Pilot 348 

Vickery's  Mountain 349 

Bon  Voyage 351 

The  Companion *      i      .      .      .      .  353 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

Vain  Gratuities 576 

Job  the  Rejected 577 

Lost  Anchors          577 

Recalled 578 

Modernities 578 

Afterthoughts         579 

Caput  Mortuum 580 

Monadnock   Through   the   Trees 580 

The  Long  Race 581 

Many  Are  Called 581 

Rembrandt  to  Rembrandt 582 


THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 

(1916) 

To  the  Memory  of 
William  Edward  Butler 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


FLAMMONDE 

THE  man  Flammonde,  from  God  knows  where, 
With  firm  address  and  foreign  air, 
With  news  of  nations  in  his  talk 
And  something  royal  in  his  walk, 
With  glint  of  iron  in  his  eyes, 
But  never  doubt,  nor  yet  surprise, 
Appeared,  and  stayed,  and  held  his  head 
As  one  by  kings  accredited. 

Erect,  with  his  alert  repose 
About  him,  and  about  his  clothea, 
He  pictured  all  tradition  hears 
Of  what  we  owe  to  fifty  years. 
His  cleansing  heritage  of  taste 
Paraded  neither  want  nor  waste; 
And  what  he  needed  for  his  fee 
To  live,  he  borrowed  graciously. 

He  never  told  us  what  he  was, 
Or  what  mischance,  or  other  cause, 
Had  banished  him  from  better  days 
To  play  the  Prince  of  Castaways. 
Meanwhile  he  played  surpassing  well 
3 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

A  part,  for  most,  unplayable; 
In  fine,  one  pauses,  half  afraid 
To  say  for  certain  that  he  played. 

For  that,  one  may  as  well  forego 
Conviction  as  to  yes  or  no; 
Nor  can  I  say  just  how  intense 
Would  then  have  been  the  difference 
To  several,  who,  having  striven 
In  vain  to  get  what  he  was  given, 
Would  see  the  stranger  taken  on 
By  friends  not  easy  to  be  won. 

Moreover,  many  a  malcontent 
He  soothed  and  found  munificent; 
His  courtesy  beguiled  and  foiled 
Suspicion  that  his  years  were  soiled; 
His  mien  distinguished  any  crowd, 
His  credit  strengthened  when  he  bowed; 
And  women,  young  and  old,  were  fond 
Of  looking  at  the  man  Flammonde. 

There  was  a  woman  in  our  town 
On  whom  the  fashion  was  to  frown; 
But  while  our  talk  renewed  the  tinge 
Of  a  long-faded  scarlet  fringe, 
The  man  Flammonde  saw  none  of  that, 
And  what  he  saw  we  wondered  at — 
That  none  of  us,  in  her  distress, 
Could  hide  or  find  our  littleness. 

There  was  a  boy  that  all  agreed 
Had  shut  within  him  the  rare  seed 
Of  learning.     We  could  understand, 
4 


FLAMMONDE 

But  none  of  us  could  lift  a  hand. 

The  man  Flammonde  appraised  the  youth, 

And  told  a  few  of  us  the  truth; 

And  thereby,  for  a  little  gold, 

A  flowered  future  was  unrolled. 

There  were  two  citizens  who  fought 
For  years  and  years,  and  over  nought; 
They  made  life  awkward  for  their  friends, 
And  shortened  their  own  dividends. 
The  man  Flammonde  said  what  was  wrong 
Should  be  made  right;  nor  was  it  long 
Before  they  were  again  in  line, 
And  had  each  other  in  to  dine. 

And  these  I  mention  are  but  four 
Of  many  out  of  many  more. 
So  much  for  them.     But  what  of  him — 
So  firm  in  every  look  and  limb  ? 
What  small  satanic  sort  of  kink 
Was  in  his  brain  ?    What  broken  link 
Withheld  him  from  the  destinies 
That  came  so  near  to  being  his  ? 

What  was  he,  when  we  came  to  sift 
His  meaning,  and  to  note  the  drift 
Of  incommunicable  ways 
That  make  us  ponder  while  we  praise? 
Why  was  it  that  his  charm  revealed 
Somehow  the  surface  of  a  shield? 
What  was  it  that  we  never  caught? 
What  was  he,  and  what  was  he  not? 

How  much  it  was  of  him  we  met 
We  cannot  ever  know;  nor  yet 
5 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Shall  all  he  gave  us  quite  atone 
For  what  was  his,  and  his  alone; 
Nor  need  we  now,  since  he  knew  best, 
Nourish  an  ethical  unrest: 
Rarely  at  once  will  nature  give 
The  power  to  be  Flammonde  and  live. 

We  cannot  know  how  much  we  learn 
From  those  who  never  will  return, 
Until  a  flash  of  unforeseen 
Remembrance  falls  on  what  has  been. 
We've  each  a  darkening  hill  to  climb; 
And  this  is  why,  from  time  to  time 
In  Tilbury  Town,  we  look  beyond 
Horizons  for  the  man  Flammonde. 


THE  GIFT  OF  GOD 

BLESSED  with  a  joy  that  only  she 

Of  all  alive  shall  ever  know, 

She  wears  a  proud  humility 

For  what  it  was  that  willed  it  so, — 

That  her  degree  should  be  so  great 

Among  the  favored  of  the  Lord 

That  she  may  scarcely  bear  the  weight 

Of  her  bewildering  reward. 

As  one  apart,  immune,  alone, 
Or  featured  for  the  shining  ones, 
And  like  to  none  that  she  has  known 
Of  other  women's  other  sons, — 
The  firm  fruition  of  her  need, 
He  shines  anointed;  and  he  blurs 
6 


Her  vision,  till  it  seems  indeed 
A  sacrilege  to  call  him  hers. 

She  fears  a  little  for  so  much 
Of  what  is  best,  and  hardly  dares 
To  think  of  him  as  one  to  touch 
With  aches,  indignities,  and  cares; 
She  sees  him  rather  at  the  goal, 
Still  shining;  and  her  dream  foretells 
The  proper  shining  of  a  soul 
Where  nothing  ordinary  dwells. 

Perchance  a  canvass  of  the  town 
Would  find  him  far  from  flags  and  shouts, 
And  leave  him  only  the  renown 
Of  many  smiles  and  many  doubts; 
Perchance  the  crude  and  common  tongue 
Would  havoc  strangely  with  his  worth; 
But  she,  with  innocence  unwrung, 
Would-  read  his  name  around  the  earth. 

And  others,  knowing  how  this  youth 
Would  shine,  if  love  could  make  him  great, 
When  caught  and  tortured  for  the  truth 
Would  only  writhe  and  hesitate; 
While  she,  arranging  for  his  days 
What  centuries  could  not  fulfill, 
Transmutes  him  with  her  faith  and  praise, 
And  has  him  shining  where  she  will. 

She  crowns  him  with  her  gratefulness, 

And  says  again  that  life  is  good; 

And  should  the  gift  of  God  be  less 

In  him  than  in  her  motherhood, 

His  fame,  though  vague,  will  not  be  small, 

7 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

As  upward  through  her  dream  he  fares, 
Half  clouded  with  a  crimson  fall 
Of  roses  thrown  on  marble  stairs. 

THE  CLINGING  VINE 

"BE  calm?    And  was  I  frantic? 

You'll  have  me  laughing  soon. 
I'm  calm  as  this  Atlantic, 

And  quiet  as  the  moon; 
I  may  have  spoken  faster 

Than  once,  in  other  days; 
For  I've  no  more  a  master, 

And  now — 'Be  calm,'  he  says. 

"Fear  not,  fear  no  commotion, — 

I'll  be  as  rocks  and  sand; 
The  moon  and  stars  and  ocean 

Will  envy  my  command; 
No  creature  could  be  stiller 

In  any  kind  of  place 
Than  I  ...  No,  I'll  not  kill  her; 

Her  death  is  in  her  face. 

"Be  happy  while  she  has  it, 

For  she'll  not  have  it  long; 
A  year,  and  then  you'll  pass  it, 

Preparing  a  new  song. 
And  I'm  a  fool  for  prating 

Of  what  a  year  may  bring, 
When  more  like  her  are  waiting 

For  more  like  you  to  sing. 

"You  mock  me  with  denial, 
You  mean  to  call  me  hard? 
8 


THE  CLINGING  VINE 

You  see  no  room  for  trial 

When  all  my  doors  are  barred? 

You  say,  and  you'd  say  dying, 
That  I  dream  what  I  know; 

And  sighing,  and  denying, 
You'd  hold  my  hand  and  go. 

"You  scowl — and  I  don't  wonder; 

I  spoke  too  fast  again; 
But  you'll  forgive  one  blunder, 

For  you  are  like  most  men : 
You  are, — or  so  you've  told  me, 

So  many  mortal  times, 
That  heaven  ought  not  to  hold  me 

Accountable  for  crimes. 

"Be  calm?    Was  I  unpleasant? 

Then  I'll  be  more  discreet, 
And  grant  you,  for  the  present, 

The  balm  of  my  defeat : 
What  she,  with  all  her  striving, 

Could  not  have  brought  about, 
You've  done.     Your  own  contriving 

Has  put  the  last  light  out. 

"If  she  were  the  whole  story, 

If  worse  were  not  behind, 
I'd  creep  with  you  to  glory, 

Believing  I  was  blind; 
I'd  creep,  and  go  on  seeming 

To  be  what  I  despise. 
You  laugh,  and  say  I'm  dreaming, 

And  all  your  laughs  are  lies. 

"Are  women  mad?    A  few  are, 
And  if  it's  true  you  say — 
9 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

If  most  men  are  as  you  are — 
We'll  all  be  mad  some  day. 

Be  calm — and  let  me  finish; 
There's  more  for  you  to  know. 

I'll  talk  while  you  diminish, 
And  listen  while  you  grow. 

"There  was  a  man  who  married 

Because  he  couldn't  see; 
And  all  his  days  he  carried 

The  mark  of  his  degree. 
But  you — you  came  clear-sighted, 

And  found  truth  in  my  eyes; 
And  all  my  wrongs  you've  righted 

With  lies,  and  lies,  and  lies. 

"You've  killed  the  last  assurance 

That  once  would  have  me  strive 
To  rouse  an  old  endurance 

That  is  no  more  alive. 
It  makes  two  people  chilly 

To  say  what  we  have  said, 
But  you — you'll  not  be  silly 

And  wrangle  for  the  dead. 

"You  don't?    You  never  wrangle? 

Why  scold  then, — or  complain? 
More  words  will  only  mangle 

What  you've  already  slain. 
Your  pride  you  can't  surrender  ? 

My  name — for  that  you  fear? 
Since  when  were  men  so  tender, 

And  honor  so  severe? 

"No  more — I'll  never  bear  it. 
I'm  going.    I'm  like  ice. 
10 


CASSANDRA 

My  burden?     You  would  share  it? 

Forbid  the  sacrifice! 
Forget  so  quaint  a  notion, 

And  let  no  more  be  told; 
For  moon  and  stars  and  ocean 

And  you  and  I  are  cold." 


CASSANDRA 

I  HEARD  one  who  said :  "Verily, 

What  word  have  I  for  children  here? 

Your  Dollar  is  your  only  Word, 
The  wrath  of  it  your  only  fear. 

"You  build  it  altars  tall  enough 
To  make  you  see,  but  you  are  blind; 

You  cannot  leave  it  long  enough 
To  look  before  you  or  behind. 

"When  Reason  beckons  you  to  pause, 
You  laugh  and  say  that  you  know  best; 

But  what  it  is  you  know,  you  keep 
As  dark  as  ingots  in  a  chest. 

"You  laugh  and  answer,  'We  are  young; 

O  leave  us  now,  and  let  us  grow.' — 
Not  asking  how  much  more  of  this 

Will  Time  endure  or  Fate  bestow. 

"Because  a  few  complacent  years 
Have  made  your  peril  of  your  pride, 

Think  you  that  you  are  to  go  on 
Forever  pampered  and  untried? 
11 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"What  lost  eclipse  of  history, 

What  bivouac  of  the  marching  stars, 

Has  given  the  sign  for  you  to  see 
Millenniums  and  last  great  wars? 

"What  unrecorded  overthrow 
Of  all  the  world  has  ever  known, 

Or  ever  been,  has  made  itself 
So  plain  to  you,  and  you  alone? 

"Your  Dollar,  Dove  and  Eagle  make 

A  Trinity  that  even  you 
Rate  higher  than  you  rate  yourselves; 

It  pays,  it  flatters,  and  it's  new. 

"And  though  your  very  flesh  and  blood 
Be  what  your  Eagle  eats  and  drinks, 

You'll  praise  him  for  the  best  of  birds, 
Not  knowing  what  the  Eagle  thinks. 

"The  power  is  yours,  but  not  the  sight; 

You  see  not  upon  what  you  tread; 
You  have  the  ages  for  your  guide, 

But  not  the  wisdom  to  be  led. 

"Think  you  to  tread  forever  down 

The  merciless  old  verities? 
And  are  you  never  to  have  eyes 

To  see  the  world  for  what  it  is  ? 

"Are  you  to  pay  for  what  you  have 
With  all  you  are?" — No  other  word 

We  caught,  but  with  a  laughing  crowd 
Moved  on.    None  heeded,  and  few  heard. 


12 


JOHN  GORHAM 


JOHN  GORHAM 

"TELL  me  what  you're  doing  over  here,  John  Gorham, 

Sighing  hard  and  seeming  to  be  sorry  when  you're  not; 

Make   me   laugh   or   let   me   go    now,    for   long   faces    in    the 

moonlight 
Are  a  sign  for  me  to  say  again  a  word  that  you  forgot." — 

"I'm  over  here  to  tell  you  what  the  moon  already 
May  have  said  or  maybe  shouted  ever  since  a  year  ago; 
I'm  over  here  to  tell  you  what  you  are,  Jane  Wayland, 
And  to  make  you  rather  sorry,  I  should  say,  for  being  so." — 

"Tell  me  what  you're  saying  to  me  now,  John  Gorham, 
Or  you'll  never  see  as  much  of  me  as  ribbons  any  more; 
I'll  vanish  in  as  many  ways  as  I  have  toes  and  fingers, 
And   you'll   not   follow   far   for   one   where   flocks   have   been 
before." — 

"I'm  sorry  now  you  never  saw  the  flocks,  Jane  Wayland, 
But  you're  the  one  to  make  of  them  as  many  as  you  need. 
And  then  about  the  vanishing.     It's  I  who  mean  to  vanish; 
And  when  I'm  here  no  longer  you'll  be  done  with  me  indeed." — 

"That's  a  way  to  tell  me  what  I  am,  John  Gorham! 
How  am  I  to  know  myself  until  I  make  you  smile? 
Try  to  look  as  if  the  moon  were  making  faces  at  you, 
And  a  little  more  as  if  you  meant  to  stay  a  little  while." — 

"You  are  what  it  is  that  over  rose-blown  gardens 
Make  a  pretty  flutter  for  a  season  in  the  sun ; 
You  are  what  it  is  that  with  a  mouse,  Jane  Wayland, 
Catches  him  and  lets  him  go  and  cats  him  up  for  fun." — 

13 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Sure  I  never  took  you  for  a  mouse,  John  Gorham; 
All  you  say  is  easy,  but  so  far  from  being  true 
That  I  wish  you  wouldn't  ever  be  again  the  one  to  think  so ; 
For  it  isn't  cats  and  butterflies  that  I  would  be  to  you." — 

"All  your  little  animals  are  in  one  picture — 

One  I've  had  before  me  since  a  year  ago  to-night; 

And  the  picture  where  they  live  will  be  of  you,  Jane  Wayland, 

Till  you  find  a  way  to  kill  them  or  to  keep  them  out  of  sight." — 

"Won't  you  ever  see  me  as  I  am,  John  Gorham, 
Leaving  out  the  foolishness  and  all  I  never  meant  ? 
Somewhere  in  me  there's  a  woman,  if  you  know  the  way  to  find 

her. 
Will  you  like  me  any  better  if  I  prove  it  and  repent?" — 

"I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  have  the  time,  Jane  Wayland ; 

And  I  dare  say  all  this  moonlight  lying  round  us  might  as  well 

Fall    for    nothing    on    the    shards    of   broken    urns    that    are 

forgotten, 
As  on  two  that  have  no  longer  much  of  anything  to  tell." 


STAFFORD'S  CABIN 

ONCE  there  was  a  cabin  here,  and  once  there  was  a  man; 
And  something  happened  here  before  my  memory  began. 
Time  has  made  the  two  of  them  the  fuel  of  one  flame 
And  all  we  have  of  them  is  now  a  legend  and  a  name. 

All  I  have  to  say  is  what  an  old  man  said  to  me, 
And  that  would  seem  to  be  as  much  as  there  will  ever  be. 
"Fifty  years  ago  it  was  we  found  it  where  it  sat." — 
And  forty  years  ago  it  was  old  Archibald  said  that. 

14 


HILLCREST 

"An  apple  tree  that's  yet  alive  saw  something,  I  suppose, 
Of  what  it  was  that  happened  there,  and  what  no  mortal  knows. 
Some  one  on  the  mountain  heard  far  off  a  master  shriek, 
And  then  there  was  a  light  that  showed  the  way  for  men  to 
seek. 

"We  found  it  in  the  morning  with  an  iron  bar  behind, 

And  there  were  chains  around  it ;  but  no  search  could  ever  find, 

Either  in  the  ashes  that  were  left,  or  anywhere, 

A  sign  to  tell  of  who  or  what  had  been  with  Stafford  there. 

"Stafford  was  a  likely  man  with  ideas  of  his  own — 
Though  I  could  never  like  the  kind  that  likes  to  live  alone; 
And  when  you  met,  you  found  his  eyes  were  always  on  your 

shoes, 
As  if  they  did  the  talking  when  he  asked  you  for  the  news. 

"That's  all,  my  son.    Were  I  to  talk  for  half  a  hundred  years 
I'd  never  clear  away  from  there  the  cloud  that  never  clears. 
We  buried  what  was  left  of  it, — the  bar,  too,  and  the  chains; 
And  only  for  the  apple  tree  there's  nothing  that  remains." 

Forty  years  ago  it  was  I  heard  the  old  man  say, 
"That's  all,  my  son."' — And  here  again  I  find  the  place  to-day, 
Deserted  and  told  only  by  the  tree  that  knows  the  most, 
And  overgrown  with  golden-rod  as  if  there  were  no  ghost. 


HILLCREST 

(To  Mrs.  Edward  MacDowell) 

No  sound  of  any  storm  that  shakes 
Old  island  walls  with  older  seas 
Comes  here  where  now  September  makes 
An  island  in  a  sea  of  trees. 
15 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Between  the  sunlight  and  the  shade 
A  man  may  learn  till  he  forgets 
The  roaring  of  a  world  remade, 
And  all  his  ruins  and  regrets; 

And  if  he  still  remembers  here 

Poor  fights  he  may  have  won  or  lost, — 

If  he  be  ridden  with  the  fear 

Of  what  some  other  fight  may  cost, — 

If,  eager  to  confuse  too  soon, 
What  he  has  known  with  what  may  be, 
He  reads  a  planet  out  of  tune 
For  cause  of  his  jarred  harmony, — 

If  here  he  venture  to  unroll 
His  index  of  adagios, 
And  he  be  given  to  console 
Humanity  with  what  he  knows, — 

He  may  by  contemplation  learn 
A  little  more  than  what  he  knew, 
And  even  see  great  oaks  return 
To  acorns  out  of  which  they  grew. 

He  may,  if  he  but  listen  well, 
Through  twilight  and  the  silence  here, 
Be  told  what  there  are  none  may  tell 
To  vanity's  impatient  ear; 

And  he  may  never  dare  again 
Say  what  awaits  him,  or  be  sure 
What  sunlit  labyrinth  of  pain 
He  may  not  enter  and  endure. 
16 


OLD  KING  COLE 

Who  knows  to-day  from  yesterday 
May  learn  to  count  no  thing  too  strange: 
Love  builds  of  what  Time  takes  away, 
Till  Death  itself  is  less  than  Change. 

Who  sees  enough  in  his  duress 
May  go  as  far  as  dreams  have  gone; 
Who  sees  a  little  may  do  less 
Than  many  who  are  blind  have  done; 

Who  sees  unchastened  here  the  soul 
Triumphant  has  no  other  sight 
Than  has  a  child  who  sees  the  whole 
World  radiant  with  his  own  delight. 

Far  journeys  and  hard  wandering 
Await  him  in  whose  crude  surmise 
Peace,  like  a  mask,  hides  everything 
That  is  and  has  been  from  his  eyes; 

And  all  his  wisdom  is  unfound, 
Or  like  a  web  that  error  weaves 
On  airy  looms  that  have  a  sound 
No  louder  now  than  falling  leaves. 


OLD  KING  COLE 

IN  Tilbury  Town  did  Old  King  Cole 

A  wise  old  age  anticipate, 

Desiring,  with  his  pipe  and  bowl, 

No  Khan's  extravagant  estate. 

No  crown  annoyed  his  honest  head, 

No  fiddlers  three  were  called  or  needed; 

For  two  disastrous  heirs  instead 

Made  music  more  than  ever  three  did. 

IT 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Bereft  of  her  with  whom  his  life 
Was  harmony  without  a  flaw, 
He  took  no  other  for  a  wife, 
Nor  sighed  for  any  that  he  saw ; 
And  if  he  doubted  his  two  sons, 
And  heirs,  Alexis  and  Evander, 
He  might  have  been  as  doubtful  once 
Of  Robert  Burns  and  Alexander. 

Alexis,  in  his  early  youth, 

Began  to  steal — from  old  and  young. 

Likewise  Evander,  and  the  truth 

Was  like  a  bad  taste  on  his  tongue. 

Born  thieves  and  liars,  their  affair 

Seemed  only  to  be  tarred  with  evil — 

The  most  insufferable  pair 

Of  scamps  that  ever  cheered  the  devil. 

The  world  went  on,  their  fame  went  on, 
And  they  went  on — from  bad  to  worse; 
Till,  goaded  hot  with  nothing  done, 
And  each  accoutred  with  a  curse, 
The  friends  of  Old  King  Cole,  by  twos, 
And  fours,  and  sevens,  and  elevens, 
Pronounced  unalterable  views 
Of  doings  that  were  not  of  heaven's. 

And  having  learned  again  whereby 
Their  baleful  zeal  had  come  about, 
King  Cole  met  many  a  wrathful  eye 
So  kindly  that  its  wrath  went  out — 
Or  partly  out.    Say  what  they  would, 
He  seemed  the  more  to  court  their  candor ; 
But  never  told  what  kind  of  good 
Was  in  Alexis  and  Evander. 
18 


OLD  KING  COLE 

And  Old  King  Cole,  with  many  a  puff 

That  haloed  his  urbanity, 

Would  smoke  till  he  had  smoked  enough, 

And  listen  most  attentively. 

He  beamed  as  with  an  inward  light 

That  had  the  Lord's  assurance  in  it; 

And  once  a  man  was  there  all  night, 

Expecting  something  every  minute. 

But  whether  from  too  little  thought, 
Or  too  much  fealty  to  the  bowl, 
A  dim  reward  was  all  he  got 
For  sitting  up  with  Old  King  Cole. 
"Though  mine,"  the  father  mused  aloud, 
"Are  not  the  sons  I  would  have  chosen, 
Shall  I,  less  evilly  endowed, 
By  their  infirmity  be  frozen! 

"They'll  have  a  bad  end,  I'll  agree, 

But  I  was  never  born  to  groan; 

For  I  can  see  what  I  can  see, 

And  I'm  accordingly  alone. 

With  open  heart  and  open  door, 

I  love  my  friends,  I  like  my  neighbors; 

But  if  I  try  to  tell  you  more, 

Your  doubts  will  overmatch  my  labors. 

"This  pipe  would  never  make  me  calm, 
This  bowl  my  grief  would  never  drown. 
For  grief  like  mine  there  is  no  balm 
In  Gilead,  or  in  Tilbury  Town. 
And  if  I  see  what  I  can  see, 
I  know  not  any  way  to  blind  it; 
Nor  more  if  any  way  may  be 
For  you  to  grope  or  fly  to  find  it. 
19 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"There  may  be  room  for  ruin  yet, 
And  ashes  for  a  wasted  love; 
Or,  like  One  whom  you  may  forget, 
I  may  have  meat  you  know  not  of. 
And  if  I'd  rather  live  than  weep 
Meanwhile,  do  you  find  that  surprising? 
Why,  bless  my  soul,  the  man's  asleep ! 
That's  good.    The  sun  will  soon  be  rising." 


BEN  JONSON  ENTERTAINS  A  MAN 
FROM  STRATFORD 

You  are  a  friend  then,  as  I  make  it  out, 

Of  our  man  Shakespeare,  who  alone  of  us 

Will  put  an  ass's  head  in  Fairyland 

As  he  would  add  a  shilling  to  more  shillings, 

All  most  harmonious, — and  out  of  his 

Miraculous  inviolable  increase 

Fills  Ilion,  Rome,  or  any  town  you  like 

Of  olden  time  with  timeless  Englishmen ; 

And  I  must  wonder  what  you  think  of  him — 

All  you  down  there  where  your  small  Avon  flows 

By  Stratford,  and  where  you're  an  Alderman. 

Some,  for  a  guess,  would  have  him  riding  back 

To  be  a  farrier  there,  or  say  a  dyer; 

Or  maybe  one  of  your  adept  surveyors; 

Or  like  enough  the  wizard  of  all  tanners. 

Not  you — no  fear  of  that;  for  I  discern 

In  you  a  kindling  of  the  flame  that  saves — 

The  nimble  element,  the  true  caloric; 

I  see  it,  and  was  told  of  it,  moreover, 

By  our  discriminate  friend  himself,  no  other. 

Had  you  been  one  of  the  sad  average, 

As  he  would  have  it, — meaning,  as  I  take  it, 


BEN  JONSON  ENTERTAINS  A  MAN  FROM  STRATFORD 

The  sinew  and  the  solvent  of  our  Island, 
You'd  not  be  buying  beer  for  this  Terpander'8 
Approved  and  estimated  friend  Ben  Jonson; 
He'd  never  foist  it  as  a  part  of  his 
Contingent  entertainment  of  a  townsman 
While  he  goes  off  rehearsing,  as  he  must, 
If  he  shall  ever  be  the  Duke  of  Stratford. 
And  my  words  are  no  shadow  on  your  town — 
Far  from  it;  for  one  town's  as  like  another 
As  all  are  unlike  London.     Oh,  he  knows  it, — 
And  there's  the  Stratford  in  him;  he  denies  it, 
And  there's  the  Shakespeare  in  him.     So,  God  help  him ! 
I  tell  him  he  needs  Greek;  but  neither  God 
Nor  Greek  will  help  him.    Nothing  will  help  that  man. 
You  see  the  fates  have  given  him  so  much, 
He  must  have  all  or  perish, — or  look  out 
Of  London,  where  he  sees  too  many  lords. 
They're  part  of  half  what  ails  him :  I  suppose 
There's  nothing  fouler  down  among  the  demons 
Than  what  it  is  he  feels  when  he  remembers 
The  dust  and  sweat  and  ointment  of  his  calling 
With  his  lords  looking  on  and  laughing  at  him. 
King  as  he  is,  he  can't  be  king  de  facto, 
And  that's  as  well,  because  he  wouldn't  like  it; 
He'd  frame  a  lower  rating  of  men  then 
Than  he  has  now;  and  after  that  would  come 
An  abdication  or  an  apoplexy. 
He  can't  be  king,  not  even  king  of  Stratford, — 
Though  half  the  world,  if  not  the  whole  of  it, 
May  crown  him  with  a  crown  that  fits  no  king 
Save  Lord  Apollo's  homesick  emissary: 
Not  there  on  Avon,  or  on  any  stream 
Where  Naiads  and  their  white  arms  are  no  more, 
Shall  he  find  home  again.    It's  all  too  bad. 
But  there's  a  comfort,  for  he'll  have  that  House — 

21 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  best  you  ever  saw ;  and  he'll  be  there 
Anon,  as  you're  an  Aldarman.    Good  God  I 
He  makes  me  lie  awake  o'nights  and  laugh. 

And  you  have  known  him  from  his  origin, 
You  tell  me;  and  a  most  uncommon  urchin 
He  must  have  been  to  the  few  seeing  ones — 
A  trifle  terrifying,  I  dare  say, 
Discovering  a  world  with  his  man's  eyes, 
Quite  as  another  lad  might  see  some  finches, 
If  he  looked  hard  and  had  an  eye  for  nature. 
But  this  one  had  his  eyes  and  their  foretelling, 
And  he  had  you  to  fare  with,  and  what  else? 
He  must  have  had  a  father  and  a  mother — 
In  fact  I've  heard  him  say  so — and  a  dog, 
As  a  boy  should,  I  venture;  and  the  dog, 
Most  likely,  was  the  only  man  who  knew  him. 
A  dog,  for  all  I  know,  is  what  he  needs 
As  much  as  anything  right  here  to-day, 
To  counsel  him  about  his  disillusions, 
Old  aches,  and  parturitions  of  what's  coming, — 
A  dog  of  orders,  an  emeritus, 
To  wag  his  tail  at  him  when  he  comes  home, 
And  then  to  put  his  paws  up  on  his  knees 
And  say,  "For  God's  sake,  what's  it  all  about?" 

I  don't  know  whether  he  needs  a  dog  or  not — 
Or  what  he  needs.     I  tell  him  he  needs  Greek; 
I'll  talk  of  rules  and  Aristotle  with  him, 
And  if  his  tongue's  at  home  he'll  say  to  that, 
"I  have  your  word  that  Aristotle  knows, 
And  you  mine  that  I  don't  know  Aristotle." 
He's  all  at  odds  with  all  the  unities, 
And  what's  yet  worse,  it  doesn't  seem  to  matter; 
He  treads  along  through  Time's  old  wilderness 
As  if  the  tramp  of  all  the  centuries 


BEN  JONSON  ENTERTAINS  A  MAN  FROM  STRATFORD 

Had  left  no  roads — and  there  are  none,  for  him; 

He  doesn't  see  them,  even  with  those  eyes, — 

And  that's  a  pity,  or  I  say  it  is. 

Accordingly  we  have  him  as  we  have  him — 

Going  his  way,  the  way  that  he  goes  best, 

A  pleasant  animal  with  no  great  noise 

Or  nonsense  anywhere  to  set  him  off — 

Save  only  divers  and  inclement  devils  , 

Have  made  of  late  his  heart  their  dwelling  place.  '  * 

A  flame  half  ready  to  fly  out  sometimes 

At  some  annoyance  may  be  fanned  up  in  him, 

But  soon  it  falls,  and  when  it  falls  goes  out; 

He  knows  how  little  room  there  is  in  there 

For  crude  and  futile  animosities, 

And  how  much  for  the  joy  of  being  whole, 

And  how  much  for  long  sorrow  and  old  pain. 

On  our  side  there  are  some  who  may  be  given 

To  grow  old  wondering  what  he  thinks  of  us 

And  some  above  us,  who  are,  in  his  eyes, 

Above  himself, — and  that's  quite  right  and  English. 

Yet  here  we  smile,  or  disappoint  the  gods 

Who  made  it  so :  the  gods  have  always  eyes 

To  see  men  scratch ;  and  they  see  one  down  here 

Who  itches,  manor-bitten  to  the  bone, 

Albeit  he  knows  himself — yes,  yes,  he  knows — 

The  lord  of  more  than  England  and  of  more 

Than  all  the  seas  of  England  in  all  time 

Shall  ever  wash.     D'ye  wonder  that  I  laugh? 

He  sees  me,  and  he  doesn't  seem  to  care; 

And  why  the  devil  should  he  ?    I  can't  tell  you. 

I'll  meet  him  out  alone  of  a  bright  Sunday, 
Trim,  rather  spruce,  and  quite  the  gentleman. 
"What  ho,  my  lord!"  say  I.    He  doesn't  hear  me; 
Wherefore  I  have  to  pause  and  look  at  him. 
He's  not  enormous,  but  one  looks  at  him. 
23 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

A  little  on  the  round  if  you  insist, 

For  now,  God  save  the  mark,  he's  growing  old; 

He's  five  and  forty,  and  to  hear  him  talk 

These  days  you'd  call  him  eighty;  then  you'd  add 

More  years  to  that.    He's  old  enough  to  be 

The  father  of  a  world,  and  so  he  is. 

"Ben,  you're  a  scholar,  what's  the  time  of  day  ?" 

Says  he;  and  there  shines  out  of  him  again 

An  aged  light  that  has  no  age  or  station — 

The  mystery  that's  his — a  mischievous 

Half-mad  serenity  that  laughs  at  fame 

For  being  won  so  easy,  and  at  friends 

Who  laugh  at  him  for  what  he  wants  the  most, 

And  for  his  dukedom  down  in  Warwickshire; — 

By  which  you  see  we're  all  a  little  jealous.  .  .  . 

Poor  Greene!    I  fear  the  color  of  his  name 

Was  even  as  that  of  his  ascending  soul; 

And  he  was  one  where  there  are  many  others, — 

Some  scrivening  to  the  end  against  their  fate, 

Their  puppets  all  in  ink  and  all  to  die  there ; 

And  some  with  hands  that  once  would  shade  an  eye 

That  scanned  Euripides  and  ^Eschylus 

Will  reach  by  this  time  for  a  pot-house  mop 

To  slush  their  first  and  last  of  royalties. 

Poor  devils!  and  they  all  play  to  his  hand; 

For  so  it  was  in  Athens  and  old  Rome. 

But  that's  not  here  or  there;  I've  wandered  off. 

Greene  does  it,  or  I'm  careful.    Where's  that  boy? 

Yes,  he'll  go  back  to  Stratford.    And  we'll  miss  him? 
Dear  sir,  there'll  be  no  London  here  without  him. 
We'll  all  be  riding,  one  of  these  fine  days, 
Down  there  to  see  him — and  his  wife  won't  like  us; 
And  then  we'll  think  of  what  he  never  said 
Of  women — which,  if  taken  all  in  all 

24 


BEN  JONSON  ENTERTAINS  A  MAN  FROM  STRATFORD 

With  what  he  did  say,  would  buy  many  horses. 

Though  nowadays  he's  not  so  much  for  women : 

"So  few  of  them,"  he  says,  "are  worth  the  guessing." 

But  there's  a  worm  at  work  when  he  says  that, 

And  while  he  says  it  one  feels  in  the  air 

A  deal  of  circumambient  hocus-pocus. 

They've  had  him  dancing  till  his  toes  were  tender, 

And  he  can  feel  'em  now,  come  chilly  rains. 

There's  no  long  cry  for  going  into  it, 

However,  and  we  don't  know  much  about  it. 

But  you  in  Stratford,  like  most  here  in  London, 

Have  more  now  in  the  Sonnets  than  you  paid  for; 

He's  put  one  there  with  all  her  poison  on, 

To  make  a  singing  fiction  of  a  shadow 

That's  in  his  life  a  fact,  and  always  will  be. 

But  she's  no  care  of  ours,  though  Time,  I  fear, 

Will  have  a  more  reverberant  ado 

About  her  than  about  another  one 

Who  seems  to  have  decoyed  him,  married  him, 

And  sent  him  scuttling  on  his  way  to  London, — 

With  much  already  learned,  and  more  to  learn, 

And  more  to  follow.  JUird !  how  I  see  him  now, 

Pretending,  maybe  trying,  to  be  like  us. 

Whatever  he  may  have  meant,  we  never  had  him ; 

He  failed  us,  or  escaped,  or  what  you  will, — 

And  there  was  that  about  him  (God  knows  what, — 

We'd  flayed  another  had  he  tried  it  on  us) 

That  made  as  many  of  us  as  had  wits 

More  fond  of  all  his  easy  distances 

Than  one  another's  noise  and  clap-your-shoulder. 

But  think  you  not,  my  friend,  he'd  never  talk! 

Talk?    He  was  eldritch  at  it;  and  we  listened — 

Thereby  acquiring  much  we  knew  before 

About  ourselves,  and  hitherto  had  held 

Irrelevant,  or  not  prime  to  the  purpose. 

25 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  there  were  some,  of  course,  and  there  be  now, 

Disordered  and  reduced  amazedly 

To  resignation  by  the  mystic  seal 

Of  young  finality  the  gods  had  laid 

On  everything  that  made  him  a  young  demon; 

And  one  or  two  shot  looks  at  him  already 

As  he  had  been  their  executioner; 

And  once  or  twice  he  was,  not  knowing  it, — 

Or  knowing,  being  sorry  for  poor  clay 

And  saying  nothing.  .  .  .  Yet,  for  all  his  engines, 

You'll  meet  a  thousand  of  an  afternoon 

Who  strut  and  sun  themselves  and  see  around  'em 

A  world  made  out  of  more  that  has  a  reason 

Than  his,  I  swear,  that  he  sees  here  to-day; 

Though  he  may  scarcely  give  a  Fool  an  exit 

But  we  mark  how  he  sees  in  everything 

A  law  that,  given  we  flout  it  once  too  often, 

Brings  fire  and  iron  down  on  our  naked  heads. 

To  me  it  looks  as  if  the  power  that  made  him, 

For  fear  of  giving  all  things  to  one  creature, 

Left  out  the  first, — faith,  innocence,  illusion, 

Whatever  'tis  that  keeps  us  out  o'  Bedlam, — 

And  thereby,  for  his  too  consuming  vision, 

Empowered  him  out  of  nature;  though  to  see  him, 

You'd  never  guess  what's  going  on  inside  him. 

He'll  break  out  some  day  like  a  keg  of  ale 

With  too  much  independent  frenzy  in  it; 

And  all  for  cellaring  what  he  knows  won't  keep, 

And  what  he'd  best  forget — but  that  he  can't. 

You'll  have  it,  and  have  more  than  I'm  foretelling; 

And  there'll  be  such  a  roaring  at  the  Globe 

As  never  stunned  the  bleeding  gladiators. 

He'll  have  to  change  the  color  of  its  hair 

A  bit,  for  now  he  calls  it  Cleopatra. 

Black  hair  would  never  do  for  Cleopatra. 


BEN  JONSON  ENTERTAINS  A  MAN  FROM  STRATFORD 

But  you  and  I  are  not  yet  two  old  women, 

And  you're  a  man  of  office.     What  he  does 

Is  more  to  you  than  how  it  is  he  does  it, — 

And  that's  what  the  Lord  God  has  never  told  him. 

They  work  together,  and  the  Devil  helps  'em; 

They  do  it  of  a  morning,  or  if  not, 

They  do  it  of  a  night;  in  which  event 

He's  peevish  of  a  morning.    He  seems  old; 

He's  not  the  proper  stomach  or  the  sleep — 

And  they're  two  sovran  agents  to  conserve  him 

Against  the  fiery  art  that  has  no  mercy 

But  what's  in  that  prodigious  grand  new  House. 

I  gather  something  happening  in  his  boyhood 

Fulfilled  him  with  a  boy's  determination 

To  make  all  Stratford  'ware  of  him.     Well,  well, 

I  hope  at  last  he'll  have  his  joy  of  it, 

And  all  his  pigs  and  sheep  and  bellowing  beeves, 

And  frogs  and  owls  and  unicorns,  moreover, 

Be  less  than  hell  to  his  attendant  ears. 

Oh,  past  a  doubt  we'll  all  go  down  to  see  him. 

He  may  be  wise.     With  London  two  days  off, 

Down  there  some  wind  of  heaven  may  yet  revive  him ; 

But  there's  no  quickening  breath  from  anywhere 

Small  make  of  him  again  the  poised  young  faun 

From  Warwickshire,  who'd  made,  it  seems,  already 

A  legend  of  himself  before  I  came 

To  blink  before  the  last  of  his  first  lightning. 

Whatever  there  be,  there'll  be  no  more  of  that; 

The  coming  on  of  his  old  monster  Time 

Has  made  him  a  still  man;  and  he  has  dreams 

Were  fair  to  think  on  once,  and  all  found  hollow. 

He  knows  how  much  of  what  men  paint  themselves 

Would  blister  in  the  light  of  what  they  are; 

He  sees  how  much  of  what  was  great  now  shares 

27 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

An  eminence  transformed  and  ordinary; 

He  knows  too  much  of  what  the  world  has  hushed 

In  others,  to  be  loud  now  for  himself; 

He  knows  now  at  what  height  low  enemies 

May  reach  his  heart,  and  high  friends  let  him  fall; 

But  what  not  even  such  as  he  may  know 

Bedevils  him  the  worst:  his  lark  may  sing 

At  heaven's  gate  how  he  will,  and  for  as  long 

As  joy  may  listen,  but  he  sees  no  gate, 

Save  one  whereat  the  spent  clay  waits  a  little 

Before  the  churchyard  has  it,  and  the  worm. 

Not  long  ago,  late  in  an  afternoon, 

I  came  on  him  unseen  down  Lambeth  way, 

And  on  my  life  I  was  afear'd  of  him: 

He  gloomed  and  mumbled  like  a  soul  from  Tophet, 

His  hands  behind  him  and  his  head  bent  solemn. 

<rWhat  is  it  now,"  said  I, — "another  woman?" 

That  made  him  sorry  for  me,  and  he  smiled. 

"No,  Ben,"  he  mused;  "it's  Nothing.    It's  all  Nothing. 

We  come,  we  go;  and  when  we're  done,  we're  done; 

Spiders  and  flies — we're  mostly  one  or  t'other — 

We  come,  we  go;  and  when  we're  done,  we're  done; 

"By  God,  you  sing  that  song  as  if  you  knew  it!" 

Said  I,  by  way  of  cheering  him;  "what  ails  ye?" 

"I  think  I  must  have  come  down  here  to  think," 

Says  he  to  that,  and  pulls  his  little  beard; 

"Your  fly  will  serve  as  well  as  anybody, 

And  what's  his  hour?    He  flies,  and  flies,  and  flies, 

And  in  his  fly's  mind  has  a  brave  appearance; 

And  then  your  spider  gets  him  in  her  net, 

And  eats  him  out,  and  hangs  him  up  to  dry. 

That's  Nature,  the  kind  mother  of  us  all. 

And  then  your  slattern  housemaid  swings  her  broom, 

And  where's  your  spider?    And  that's  Nature,  also. 

It's  Nature,  and  it's  Nothing.     It's  all  Nothing. 

28 


BEN  JONSON  ENTERTAINS  A  MAN  FROM  STRATFORD 

It's  all  a  world  where  bugs  and  emperors 
Go  singularly  back  to  the  same  dust, 
Each,  in  his  time;  and  the  old,  ordered  stars 
That  sang  together,  Ben,  will  sing  the  same 
Old  stave  to-morrow." 

When  he  talks  like  that, 
There's  nothing  for  a  human  man  to  do 
But  lead  him  to  some  grateful  nook  like  this 
Where  we  be  now,  and  there  to  make  him  drink. 
He'll  drink,  for  love  of  me,  and  then  be  sick; 
A  sad  sign  always  in  a  man  of  parts, 
And  always  very  ominous.     The  great 
Should  be  as  large  in  liquor  as  in  love, — 
And  our  great  friend  is  not  so  large  in  either: 
One  disaffects  him,  and  the  other  fails  him; 
Whatso  he  drinks  that  has  an  antic  in  it, 
He's  wondering  what's  to  pay  in  his  insides; 
And  while  his  eyes  are  on  the  Cyprian 
He's  fribbling  all  the  time  with  that  damned  House. 
We  laugh  here  at  his  thrift,  but  after  all 
It  may  be  thrift  that  saves  him  from  the  devil; 
God  gave  it,  anyhow, — and  we'll  suppose 
He  knew  the  compound  of  his  handiwork. 
To-day  the  clouds  are  with  him,  but  anon 
He'll  out  of  'em  enough  to  shake  the  tree 
Of  life  itself  and  bring  down  fruit  unheard-of, — 
And,  throwing  in  the  bruised  and  whole  together, 
Prepare  a  wine  to  make  us  drunk  with  wonder; 
And  if  he  live,  there'll  be  a  sunset  spell 
Thrown  over  him  as  over  a  glassed  lake 
That  yesterday  was  all  a  black  wild  water. 

God  send  he  live  to  give  us,  if  no  more, 
What  HOW'S  a-rampage  in  him,  and  exhibit, 
29 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

With  a  decent  half-allegiance  to  the  ages 

An  earnest  of  at  least  a  casual  eye 

Turned  once  on  what  he  owes  to  Gutenberg, 

And  to  the  fealty  of  more  centuries 

Than  are  as  yet  a  picture  in  our  vision. 

"There's  time  enough, — I'll  do  it  when  I'm  old, 

And  we're  immortal  men,"  he  says  to  that; 

And  then  he  says  to  me,  "Ben,  what's  'immortal'? 

Think  you  by  any  force  of  ordination 

It  may  be  nothing  of  a  sort  more  noisy 

Than  a  small  oblivion  of  component  ashes 

That  of  a  dream-addicted  world  was  once 

A  moving  atomy  much  like  your  friend  here?" 

Nothing  will  help  that  man.     To  make  him  laugh, 

I  said  then  he  was  a  mad  mountebank, — 

And  by  the  Lord  I  nearer  made  him  cry. 

I  could  have  eat  an  eft  then,  on  my  knees, 

Tail,  claws,  and  all  of  him;  for  I  had  stung 

The  king  of  men,  who  had  no  sting  for  me, 

And  I  had  hurt  him  in  his  memories; 

And  I  say  now,  as  I  shall  say  again, 

I  love  the  man  this  side  idolatry. 

He'll  do  it  when  he's  old,  he  says.    I  wonder. 
He  may  not  be  so  ancient  as  all  that. 
For  such  as  he,  the  thing  that  is  to  do 
Will  do  itself, — but  there's  a  reckoning; 
The  sessions  that  are  now  too  much  his  own, 
The  roiling  inward  of  a  stilled  outside, 
The  churning  out  of  all  those  blood-fed  lines, 
The  nights  of  many  schemes  and  little  sleep, 
The  full  brain  hammered  hot  with  too  much  thinking, 
The  vexed  heart  over-worn  with  too  much  aching, — 
This  weary  jangling  of  conjoined  affairs 
Made  out  of  elements  that  have  no  end, 
30 


BEN  JONSON  ENTERTAINS  A  MAN  FROM  STRATFORD 

And  all  confused  at  once,  I  understand, 

Is  not  what  makes  a  man  to  live  forever. 

O  no,  not  now !    He'll  not  be  going  now : 

There'll  be  time  yet  for  God  knows  what  explosions 

Before  he  goes.     He'll  stay  awhile.     Just  wait: 

Just  wait  a  year  or  two  for  Cleopatra, 

For  she's  to  be  a  balsam  and  a  comfort; 

And  that's  not  all  a  jape  of  mine  now,  either. 

For  granted  once  the  old  way  of  Apollo 

Sings  in  a  man,  he  may  then,  if  he's  able, 

Strike  unafraid  whatever  strings  he  will 

Upon  the  last  and  wildest  of  new  lyres; 

Nor  out  of  his  new  magic,  though  it  hymn 

The  shrieks  of  dungeoned  hell,  shall  he  create 

A  madness  or  a  gloom  to  shut  quite  out 

A  cleaving  daylight,  and  a  last  great  calm 

Triumphant  over  shipwreck  and  all  storms. 

He  might  have  given  Aristotle  creeps, 

But  surely  would  have  given  him  his  Tcatliarsis. 

He'll  not  be  going  yet.     There's  too  much  yet 
Unsung  within  the  man.    But  when  he  goes, 
I'd  stake  ye  coin  o'  the  realm  his  only  care 
For  a  phantom  world  he  sounded  and  found  wanting 
Will  be  a  portion  here,  a  portion  there, 
Of  this  or  that  thing  or  some  other  thing 
That  has  a  patent  and  intrinsical 
Equivalence  in  those  egregious  shillings. 
And  yet  he  knows,  God  help  him!    Tell  me,  now, 
If  ever  there  was  anything  let  loose 
On  earth  by  gods  or  devils  heretofore 
Like  this  mad,  careful,  proud,  indifferent  Shakespeare ! 
Where  was  it,  if  it  ever  was  ?    By  heaven, 
'Twas  never  yet  in  Rhodes  or  Pergamon — 
In  Thebes  or  Nineveh,  a  thing  like  this ! 
31 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

No  thing  like  this  was  ever  out  of  England ; 
And  that  he  knows.  I  wonder  if  he  cares. 
Perhaps  he  does.  .  .  .  O  Lord,  that  House  in  Stratfordl 


EROS  TURANNOS 

SHE  fears  him,  and  will  always  ask 

What  fated  her  to  choose  him; 
She  meets  in  his  engaging  mask 

All  reasons  to  refuse  him; 
But  what  she  meets  and  what  she  fears 
Are  less  than  are  the  downward  years, 
Drawn  slowly  to  the  foamless  weirs 
Of  age,  were  she  to  lose  him. 

Between  a  blurred  sagacity 

That  once  had  power  to  sound  him, 

And  Love,  that  will  not  let  him  be 
The  Judas  that  she  found  him, 

Her  pride  assuages  her  almost, 

As  if  it  were  alone  the  cost. — 

He  sees  that  he  will  not  be  lost, 
And  waits  and  looks  around  him. 

A  sense  of  ocean  and  old  trees 

Envelops  and  allures  him; 
Tradition,  touching  all  he  sees, 

Beguiles  and  reassures  him; 
And  all  her  doubts  of  what  he  says 
Are  dimmed  with  what  she  knows  of  days — 
Till  even  prejudice  delays 

And  fades,  and  she  secures  him. 

The  falling  leaf  inaugurates 
The  reign  of  her  confusion; 


OLD  TRAILS 

The  pounding  wave  reverberates 

The  dirge  of  her  illusion; 
And  home,  where  passion  lived  and  died, 
Becomes  a  place  where  she  can  hide, 
While  all  the  town  and  harbor  side 

Vibrate  with  her  seclusion. 

We  tell  you,  tapping  on  our  brows, 

The  story  as  it  should  be, — 
As  if  the  story  of  a  house 

Were  told,  or  ever  could  be; 
We'll  have  no  kindly  veil  between 
Her  visions  and  those  we  have  seen, — 
As  if  we  guessed  what  hers  have  been, 
Or  what  they  are  or  would  be. 

Meanwhile  we  do  no  harm ;  for  they 
That  with  a  god  have  striven, 

Not  hearing  much  of  what  we  say, 
Take  what  the  god  has  given; 

Though  like  waves  breaking  it  may  be, 

Or  like  a  changed  familiar  tree, 

Or  like  a  stairway  to  the  sea 
Where  down  the  blind  are  driven. 


OLD  TRAILS 
(WASHINGTON  SQUARE) 

I  MET  him,  as  one  meets  a  ghost  or  two, 
Between  the  gray  Arch  and  the  old  Hotel. 
"King  Solomon  was  right,  there's  nothing  new," 
Said  he.     "Behold  a  ruin  who  meant  well." 

33 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  led  me  down  familiar  steps  again, 
Appealingly,  and  set  me  in  a  chair. 
"My  dreams  have  all  come  true  to  other  men," 
Said  he;  "God  lives,  however,  and  why  care? 

"An  hour  among  the  ghosts  will  do  no  harm." 
He  laughed,  and  something  glad  within  me  sank. 
I  may  have  eyed  him  with  a  faint  alarm, 
For  now  his  laugh  was  lost  in  what  he  drank. 

"They  chill  things  here  with  ice  from  hell,"  he  said; 
"I  might  have  known  it."    And  he  made  a  face 
That  showed  again  how  much  of  him  was  dead, 
And  how  much  was  alive  and  out  of  place, 

And  out  of  reach.    He  knew  as  well  as  I 
That  all  the  words  of  wise  men  who  are  skilled 
In  using  them  are  not  much  to  defy 
What  comes  when  memory  meets  the  unfulfilled. 

What  evil  and  infirm  perversity 

Had  been  at  work  with  him  to  bring  him  back? 

Never  among  the  ghosts,  assuredly, 

Would  he  originate  a  new  attack; 

Never  among  the  ghosts,  or  anywhere, 
Till  what  was  dead  of  him  was  put  away, 
Would  he  attain  to  his  offended  share 
Of  honor  among  others  of  his  day. 

"You  ponder  like  an  owl,"  he  said  at  last; 
"You  always  did,  and  here  you  have  a  cause. 
For  I'm  a  confirmation  of  the  past, 
A  vengeance,  and  a  flowering  of  what  was. 

34 


OLD  TRAILS 

"Sorry?     Of  course  you  are,  though  you  compress, 
With  even  your  most  impenetrable  fears, 
A  placid  and  a  proper  consciousness 
Of  anxious  angels  over  my  arrears. 

"I  see  them  there  against  me  in  a  book 
As  large  as  hope,  in  ink  that  shines  by  night 
Surely  I  see;  but  now  I'd  rather  look 
At  you,  and  you  are  not  a  pleasant  sight. 

"Forbear,  forgive.    Ten  years  are  on  my  soul, 
And  on  my  conscience.     I've  an  incubus : 
My  one  distinction,  and  a  parlous  toll 
To  glory;  but  hope  lives  on  clamorous. 

"  'Twas  hope,  though  heaven  I  grant  you  knows  of  what- 

The  kind  that  blinks  and  rises  when  it  falls, 

Whether  it  sees  a  reason  why  or  not — 

That  heard  Broadway's  hard-throated  siren-calls; 

"  'Twas  hope  that  brought  me  through  December  storms, 
To  shores  again  where  I'll  not  have  to  be 
A  lonely  man  with  only  foreign  worms 
To  cheer  him  in  his  last  obscurity. 

"But  what  it  was  that  hurried  me  down  here 
To  be  among  the  ghosts,  I  leave  to  you. 
My  thanks  are  yours,  no  less,  for  one  thing  clear: 
Though  you  are  silent,  what  you  say  is  true. 

"There  may  have  been  the  devil  in  my  feet, 
For  down  I  blundered,  like  a  fugitive, 
To  find  the  old  room  in  Eleventh  Street. 
God  save  us ! — I  came  here  again  to  live." 
35 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

We  rose  at  that,  and  all  the  ghosts  rose  then, 
And  followed  us  unseen  to  his  old  room. 
No  longer  a  good  place  for  living  men 
We  found  it,  and  we  shivered  in  the  gloom. 

The  goods  he  took  away  from  there  were  few, 
And  soon  we  found  ourselves  outside  once  more, 
Where  now  the  lamps  along  the  Avenue 
Bloomed  white  for  miles  above  an  iron  floor. 

"Now  lead  me  to  the  newest  of  hotels," 
He  said,  "and  let  your  spleen  be  undeceived: 
This  ruin  is  not  myself,  but  some  one  else; 
I  haven't  failed;  I've  merely  not  achieved." 

Whether  he  knew  or  not,  he  laughed  and  dined 
With  more  of  an  immune  regardlessness 
Of  pits  before  him  and  of  sands  behind 
Than  many  a  child  at  forty  would  confess; 

And  after,  when  the  bells  in  Boris  rang 

Their  tumult  at  the  Metropolitan, 

He  rocked  himself,  and  I  believe  he  sang. 

"God  lives,"  he  crooned  aloud,  "and  I'm  the  man!" 

He  was.    And  even  though  the  creature  spoiled 
All  prophecies,  I  cherish  his  acclaim. 
Three  weeks  he  fattened;  and  five  years  he  toiled 
In  Yonkers, — and  then  sauntered  into  fame. 

And  he  may  go  now  to  what  streets  he  will — 
Eleventh,  or  the  last,  and  little  care; 
But  he  would  find  the  old  room  very  still 
Of  evenings,  and  the  ghosts  would  all  be  there. 
36 


THE  UNFORGIVEN 

I  doubt  if  he  goes  after  them;  I  doubt 

If  many  of  them  ever  come  to  him. 

His  memories  are  like  lamps,  and  they  go  out; 

Or  if  they  burn,  they  flicker  and  are  dim. 

A  light  of  other  gleams  he  has  to-day 

And  adulations  of  applauding  hosts; 

A  famous  danger,  but  a  safer  way 

Than  growing  old  alone  among  the  ghosts. 

But  we  may  still  be  glad  that  we  were  wrong: 
lie  fooled  us,  and  we'd  shrivel  to  deny  it; 
Though  sometimes  when  old  echoes  ring  too  long, 
I  wish  the  bells  in  Boris  would  be  quiet. 


THE  UNFORGIVEN 

WHEN  he,  who  is  the  unforgiven, 
Beheld  her  first,  he  found  her  fair: 
No  promise  ever  dreamt  in  heaven 
Could  then  have  lured  him  anywhere 
That  would  have  been  away  from  there; 
And  all  his  wits  had  lightly  striven, 
Foiled  with  her  voice,  and  eyes,  and  hair. 

There's  nothing  in  the  saints  and  sages 
To  meet  the  shafts  her  glances  had, 
Or  such  as  hers  have  had  for  ages 
To  blind  a  man  till  he  be  glad, 
And  humble  him  till  he  be  mad. 
The  story  would  have  many  pages, 
And  would  be  neither  good  nor  bad. 

And,  having  followed,  you  would  find  him 
Where  properly  the  play  begins; 
37 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

But  look  for  no  red  light  behind  him — 
No  fumes  of  many-colored  sins, 
Fanned  high  by  screaming  violins. 
God  knows  what  good  it  was  to  blind  him, 
Or  whether  man  or  woman  wins. 

And  by  the  same  eternal  token, 

Who  knows  just  how  it  will  all  end? — 

This  drama  of  hard  words  unspoken, 

This  fireside  farce,  without  a  friend 

Or  enemy  to  comprehend 

What  augurs  when  two  lives  are  broken, 

And  fear  finds  nothing  left  to  mend. 

He  stares  in  vain  for  what  awaits  him, 
And  sees  in  Love  a  coin  to  toss; 
He  smiles,  and  her  cold  hush  berates  him 
Beneath  his  hard  half  of  the  cross; 
They  wonder  why  it  ever  was; 
And  she,  the  unforgiving,  hates  him 
More  for  her  lack  than  for  her  loss. 

He  feeds  with  pride  his  indecision, 
And  shrinks  from  what  will  not  occur, 
Bequeathing  with  infirm  derision 
His  ashes  to  the  days  that  were, 
Before  she  made  him  prisoner; 
And  labors  to  retrieve  the  vision 
That  he  must  once  have  had  of  her. 

He  waits,  and  there  awaits  an  ending, 
And  he  knows  neither  what  nor  when; 
But  no  magicians  are  attending 
To  make  him  see  as  he  saw  then, 
And  he  will  never  find  again 
38 


THEOPHILUS 

The  face  that  once  had  been  the  rending 
Of  all  his  purpose  among  men. 

He  blames  her  not,  nor  does  he  chide  her, 
And  she  has  nothing  new  to  say; 
If  he  were  Bluebeard  he  could  hide  her, 
But  that's  not  written  in  the  play, 
And  there  will  be  no  change  to-day; 
Although,  to  the  serene  outsider, 
There  still  would  seem  to  be  a  way. 


THEOPHILUS 

BY  what  serene  malevolence  of  names 

Had  you  the  gift  of  yours,  Theophilus  ? 

Not  even  a  smeared  young  Cyclops  at  his  games 

Would  have  you  long, — and  you  are  one  of  us. 

Told  of  your  deeds  I  shudder  for  your  dream 
And  they,  no  doubt,  are  few  and  innocent. 
Meanwhile,  I  marvel;  for  in  you,  it  seems, 
'Heredity  outshines  environment. 

What  lingering  bit  of  Belial,  unforeseen, 
Survives  and  amplifies  itself  in  you? 
What  manner  of  devilry  has  ever  been 
That  your  obliquity  may  never  do? 

Humility  befits  a  father's  eyes, 
But  not  a  friend  of  us  would  have  him  weep. 
Admiring  everything  that  lives  and  dies, 
Theophilus,  we  like  you  best  asleep. 
39 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Sleep — sleep;  and  let  us  find  another  man 
To  lend  another  name  less  hazardous: 
Caligula,  maybe,  or  Caliban, 
Or  Cain, — but  surely  not  Theophilus. 


VETERAN  SIRENS 

THE  ghost  of  Ninon  would  be  sorry  now 
To  laugh  at  them,  were  she  to  see  them  here, 
So  brave  and  so  alert  for  learning  how 
To  fence  with  reason  for  another  year. 

Age  offers  a  far  comelier  diadem 
Than  theirs;  but  anguish  has  no  eye  for  grace, 
When  time's  malicious  mercy  cautions  them 
To  think  a  while  of  number  and  of  space. 

The  burning  hope,  the  worn  expectancy, 
The  martyred  humof,  and  the  maimed  allure, 
Cry  out  for  time  to  end  his  levity, 
And  age  to  soften  its  investiture; 

But  they,  though  others  fade  and  are  still  fair, 
Defy  their  fairness  and  are  unsubdued; 
Although  they  suffer,  they  may  not  forswear 
The  patient  ardor  of  the  unpursued. 

Poor  flesh,  to  fight  the  calendar  so  long; 
Poor  vanity,  so  quaint  and  yet  so  brave; 
Poor  folly,  so  deceived  and  yet  so  strong, 
So  far  from  Ninon  and  so  near  the  grave. 
40 


ANOTHER  DARK  LADY 


SIEGE  PERILOUS 

LONG  warned  of  many  terrors  more  severe 

To  scorch  him  than  hell's  engines  could  awaken, 

He  scanned  again,  too  far  to  be  so  near, 

The  fearful  seat  no  man  had  ever  taken. 

So  many  other  men  with  older  eyes 
Than  his  to  see  with  older  sight  behind  them 
Had  known  so  long  their  one  way  to  be  wise, — 
Was  any  other  thing  to  do  than  mind  them? 

So  many  a  blasting  parallel  had  seared 
Confusion  on  his  faith, — could  he  but  wonder 
If  he  were  mad  and  right,  or  if  he  feared 
God's  fury  told  in  shafted  flame  and  thunder? 

There  fell  one  day  upon  his  eyes  a  light 
Ethereal,  and  he  heard  no  more  men  speaking; 
He  saw  their  shaken  heads,  but  no  long  sight 
Was  his  but  for  the  end  that  he  went  seeking. 

The  end  he  sought  was  not  the  end;  the  crown 
He  won  shall  unto  many  still  be  given. 
Moreover,  there  was  reason  here  to  frown: 
No  fury  thundered,  no  flame  fell  from  heaven. 


ANOTHER  DARK  LADY 

THINK  not,  because  I  wonder  where  you  fled, 
That  I  would  lift  a  pin  to  see  you  there; 
You  may,  for  me,  be  prowling  anywhere, 
So  long  as  you  show  not  your  little  head: 

41 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

No  dark  and  evil  story  of  the  dead 
Would  leave  you  less  pernicious  or  less  fair — 
Not  even  Lilith,  with  her  famous  hair; 
And  Lilith  was  the  devil,  I  have  read. 

I  cannot  hate  you,  for  I  loved  you  then. 

The  woods  were  golden  then.     There  was  a  road 

Through  beeches ;  and  I  said  their  smooth  feet  showed 

Like  yours.    Truth  must  have  heard  me  from  afar, 

For  I  shall  never  have  to  learn  again 

That  yours  are  cloven  as  no  beech's  are. 


THE  VOICE  OF  AGE 

SHE'D  look  upon  us,  if  she  could, 
As  hard  as  Rhadamanthus  would; 
Yet  one  may  see, — who  sees  her  face, 
Her  crown  of  silver  and  of  lace, 
Her  mystical  serene  address 
Of  age  alloyed  with  loveliness, — 
That  she  would  not  annihilate 
The  frailest  of  things  animate. 

She  has  opinions  of  our  ways, 
And  if  we're  not  all  mad,  she  says, — 
If  our  ways  are  not  wholly  worse 
Than  others,  for  not  being  hers, — 
There  might  somehow  be  found  a  few 
Less  insane  things  for  us  to  do, 
And  we  might  have  a  little  heed 
Of  what  Belshazzar  couldn't  read. 

She  feels,  with  all  our  furniture, 
Eoom  yet  for  something  more  secure 
42 


THE  DARK  HOUSE 

Than  our  self-kindled  aureoles 
To  guide  our  poor  forgotten  souls; 
But  when  we  have  explained  that  grace 
Dwells  now  in  doing  for  the  race, 
She  nods — as  if  she  were  relieved; 
Almost  as  if  she  were  deceived. 

She  frowns  at  much  of  what  she  hears, 
And  shakes  her  head,  and  has  her  fears ; 
Though  none  may  know,  by  any  chance, 
What  rose-leaf  ashes  of  romance 
Are  faintly  stirred  by  later  days 
That  would  be  well  enough,  she  says, 
If  only  people  were  more  wise, 
And  grown-up  children  used  their  eyes. 


THE  DARK  HOUSE 

WHERE  a  faint  light  shines  alone, 
Dwells  a  Demon  I  have  known. 
Most  of  you  had  better  say 
"The  Dark  House,"  and  go  your  way. 
Do  not  wonder  if  I  stay. 

For  I  know  the  Demon's  eyes, 
And  their  lure  that  never  dies. 
Banish  all  your  fond  alarms, 
For  I  know  the  foiling  charms 
Of  her  eyes  and  of  her  arms, 

And  I  know  that  in  one  room 
Burns  a  lamp  as  in  a  tomb; 
And  I  see  the  shadow  glide, 
Back  and  forth,  of  one  denied 
Power  to  find  himself  outside. 
43 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

There  he  is  who  is  my  friend, 
Damned,  he  fancies,  to  the  end — 
Vanquished,  ever  since  a  door 
Closed,  he  thought,  for  evermore 
On  the  life  that  was  before. 

And  the  friend  who  knows  him  best 
Sees  him  as  he  sees  the  rest 
Who  are  striving  to  be  wise 
While  a  Demon's  arms  and  eyes 
Hold  them  as  a  web  would  flies. 

All  the  words  of  all  the  world, 
Aimed  together  and  then  hurled, 
Would  be  stiller  in  his  ears 
Than  a  closing  of  still  shears 
On  a  thread  made  out  of  years. 

But  there  lives  another  sound, 
More  compelling,  more  profound; 
There's  a  music,  so  it  seems, 
That  assuages  and  redeems, 
More  than  reason,  more  than  dreams. 

There's  a  music  yet  unheard 
By  the  creature  of  the  word, 
Though  it  matters  little  more 
Than  a  wave-wash  on  a  shore — 
Till  a  Demon  shuts  a  door. 

So,  if  he  be  very  still 
With  his  Demon,  and  one  will, 
Murmurs  of  it  may  be  blown 
To  my  friend  who  is  alone 
In  a  room  that  I  have  known. 
44 


THE  POOR  RELATION 

After  that  from  everywhere 
Singing  life  will  find  him  there; 
Then  the  door  will  open  wide, 
And  my  friend,  again  outside, 
Will  be  living,  having  died. 


THE  POOR  RELATION 

No  longer  torn  by  what  she  knows 
And  sees  within  the  eyes  of  others, 
Her  doubts  are  when  the  daylight  goes, 
Her  fears  are  for  the  few  she  bothers. 
She  tells  them  it  is  wholly  wrong 
Of  her  to  stay  alive  so  long ; 
And  when  she  smiles  her  forehead  shows 
A  crinkle  that  had  been  her  mother's. 

Beneath  her  beauty,  blanched  with  pain, 
And  wistful  yet  for  being  cheated, 
A  child  would  seem  to  ask  again 
A  question  many  times  repeated; 
But  no  rebellion  has  betrayed 
Her  wonder  at  what  she  has  paid 
For  memories  that  have  no  stain, 
For  triumph  born  to  be  defeated. 

To  those  who  come  for  what  she  was — 
The  few  left  who  know  where  to  find  her — 
She  clings,  for  they  are  all  she  has; 
And  she  may  smile  when  they  remind  her, 
As  heretofore,  of  what  they  know 
Of  roses  that  are  still  to  blow 
By  ways  where  not  so  much  as  grass 
Remains  of  what  she  sees  behind  her. 
45 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

They  stay  a  while,  and  having  done 
What  penance  or  the  past  requires, 
They  go,  and  leave  her  there  alone 
To  count  her  chimneys  and  her  spires. 
Her  lip  shakes  when  they  go  away, 
And  yet  she  would  not  have  them  stay; 
She  knows  as  well  as  anyone 
That  Pity,  having  played,  soon  tires. 

But  one  friend  always  reappears, 
A  good  ghost,  not  to  be  forsaken ; 
Whereat  she  laughs  and  has  no  fears 
Of  what  a  ghost  may  reawaken, 
But  welcomes,  while  she  wears  and  mends 
The  poor  relation's  odds  and  ends, 
Her  truant  from  a  tomb  of  years — 
Her  power  of  youth  so  early  taken. 

Poor  laugh,  more  slender  than  her  song 
It  seems;  and  there  are  none  to  hear  it 
With  even  the  stopped  ears  of  the  strong 
For  breaking  heart  or  broken  spirit. 
The  friends  who  clamored  for  her  place, 
And  would  have  scratched  her  for  her  face, 
Have  lost  her  laughter  for  so  long 
That  none  would  care  enough  to  fear  it. 

None  live  who  need  fear  anything 
From  her,  whose  losses  are  their  pleasure; 
The  plover  with  a  wounded  wing 
Stays  not  the  flight  that  others  measure; 
So  there  she  waits,  and  while  she  lives, 
And  death  forgets,  and  faith  forgives, 
Her  memories  go  foraging 
For  bits  of  childhood  song  they  treasure. 
46 


THE  BURNING  BOOK 

And  like  a  giant  harp  that  hums 
On  always,  and  is  always  blending 
The  coming  of  what  never  comes 
With  what  has  past  and  had  an  ending, 
The  City  trembles,  throbs,  and  pounds 
Outside,  and  through  a  thousand  sounds 
The  small  intolerable  drums 
Of  Time  are  like  slow  drops  descending. 

Bereft  enough  to  shame  a  sage 

And  given  little  to  long  sighing, 

With  no  illusion  to  assuage 

The  lonely  changelessness  of  dying, — 

Unsought,  unthought-of,  and  unheard, 

She  sings  and  watches  like  a  bird, 

Safe  in  a  comfortable  cage 

From  which  there  will  be  no  more  flying. 


THE  BURNING  BOOK 

OR  THE  CONTENTED  METAPHYSICIAN 

To  the  lore  of  no  manner  of  men 

Would  his  vision  have  yielded 
When  he  found  what  will  never  again 

From  his  vision  be  shielded, — 
Though  he  paid  with  as  much  of  his  life 

As  a  nun  could  have  given, 
And  to-night  would  have  been  as  a  knife, 

Devil-drawn,  devil-driven. 

For  to-night,  with  his  flame-weary  eyes 

On  the  work  he  is  doing, 
He  considers  the  tinder  that  flies 

And  the  quick  flame  pursuing. 

47 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

In  the  leaves  that  are  crinkled  and  curled 

Are  his  ashes  of  glory, 
And  what  once  were  an  end  of  the  world 

Is  an  end  of  a  story. 

But  he  smiles,  for  no  more  shall  his  days 

Be  a  toil  and  a  calling 
For  a  way  to  make  others  to  gaze 

On  God's  face  without  falling. 
He  has  come  to  the  end  of  his  words, 

And  alone  he  rejoices 
In  the  choiring  that  silence  affords 

Of  ineffable  voices. 

To  a  realm  that  his  words  may  not  reach 

He  may  lead  none  to  find  him; 
An  adept,  and  with  nothing  to  teach, 

He  leaves  nothing  behind  him. 
For  the  rest,  he  will  have  his  release, 

And  his  embers,  attended 
By  the  large  and  unclamoring  peace 

Of  a  dream  that  is  ended. 


FRAGMENT 

FAINT  white  pillars  that  seem  to  fade 
As  you  look  from  here  are  the  first  one  sees 
Of  his  house  where  it  hides  and  dies  in  a  shade 
Of  beeches  and  oaks  and  hickory  trees. 
Now  many  a  man,  given  woods  like  these, 
And  a  house  like  that,  and  the  Briony  gold, 
Would  have  said,  "There  are  still  some  gods  to  please, 
And  houses  are  built  without  hands,  we're  told." 
48 


LISETTE  AND  EILEEN 

There  are  the  pillars,  and  all  gone  gray. 
Briony's  hair  went  white.     You  may  see 
Where  the  garden  was  if  you  come  this  way. 
That  sun-dial  scared  him,  he  said  to  me; 
"Sooner  or  later  they  strike,"  said  he, 
And  he  never  got  that  from  the  books  he  read. 
Others   are  nourishing,   worse  than  he, 
But  he  knew  too  much  for  the  life  he  led. 

And  who  knows  all  knows  everything 

That  a  patient  ghost  at  last  retrieves; 

There's  more  to  be  known  of  his  harvesting 

When  Time  the  thresher  unbinds  the  sheaves; 

And  there's  more  to  be  heard  than  a  wind  that  grieves 

For  Briony  now  in  this  ageless  oak, 

Driving  the  first  of  its  withered  leaves 

Over  the  stones  where  the  fountain  broke. 


LISETTE  AND  EILEEN 

"WHEN  he  was  here  alive,  Eileen, 
There  was  a  word  you  might  have  said; 
So  never  mind  what  I  have  been, 
Or  anything, — for  you  are  dead. 

"And  after  this  when  I  am  there 
Where  he  is,  you'll  be  dying  still. 
Your  eyes  are  dead,  and  your  black  hair,- 
The  rest  of  you  be  what  it  will. 

"  'Twas  all  to  save  him  ?    Never  mind, 
Eileen.    You  saved  him.     You  are  strong. 
I'd  hardly  wonder  if  your  kind 
Paid  everything,  for  you  live  long. 

49 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"You  last,  I  mean.     That's  what  I  mean. 
I  mean  you  last  as  long  as  lies. 
You  might  have  said  that  word,  Eileen, — 
And  you  might  have  your  hair  and  eyes. 

"And  what  you  see  might  be  Lisette, 
Instead  of  this  that  has  no  name. 
Your  silence — I  can  feel  it  yet, 
Alive  and  in  me,  like  a  flame. 

"Where  might  I  be  with  him  to-day, 
Could  he  have  known  before  he  heard? 
But  no — your  silence  had  its  way, 
Without  a  weapon  or  a  word. 

"Because  a  word  was  never  told, 
I'm  going  as  a  worn  toy  goes. 
And  you  are  dead;  and  you'll  be  old; 
And  I  forgive  you,  I  suppose. 

'Til  soon  be  changing  as  all  do, 
To  something  we  have  always  been; 
And  you'll  be  old.  .  .  .  He  liked  you,  too, 
I  might  have  killed  you  then,  Eileen. 

"I  think  he  liked  as  much  of  you 
As  had  a  reason  to  be  seen, — 
As  much  as  God  made  black  and  blue. 
He  liked  your  hair  and  eyes,  Eileen." 


LLEWELLYN  AND  THE  TREE 

Could  he  have  made  Priscilla  share 
The  paradise  that  he  had  planned, 

Llewellyn  would  have  loved  his  wife 
As  well  as  any  in  the  land. 
50 


LLEWELLYN  AND  THE  TREE 

Could  he  have  made  Priscilla  cease 
To  goad  him  for  what  God  left  out, 

Llewellyn  would  have  been  as  mild 
As  any  we  have  read  about. 

Could  all  have  been  as  all  was  not, 
Llewellyn  would  have  had  no  story; 

He  would  have  stayed  a  quiet  man 
And  gone  his  quiet  way  to  glory. 

But  howsoever  mild  he  was 

Priscilla  was  implacable; 
And  whatsoever  timid  hopes 

He  built — she  found  them,  and  they  fell. 

And  this  went  on,  with  intervals 

Of  labored  harmony  between 
Resounding  discords,  till   at  last 

Llewellyn  turned — as  will  be  seen. 

Priscilla,  warmer  than  her  name, 
And  shriller  than  the  sound  of  saws, 

Pursued  Llewellyn  once  too  far, 

Not  knowing  quite  the  man  he  was. 

The  more  she  said,  the  fiercer  clung 
The  stinging  garment  of  his  wrath; 

And  this  was  all  before  the  day 

When  Time  tossed  roses  in  his  path. 

Before  the  roses  ever  came 

Llewellyn  had  already  risen. 
The  roses  may  have  ruined  him, 

They  may  have  kept  him  out  of  prison. 

51 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  she  who  brought  them,  being  Fate, 
Made  roses  do  the  work  of  spears, — 

Though  many  made  no  more  of  her 
Than  civet,  coral,  rouge,  and  years. 

You  ask  us  what  Llewellyn  saw, 

But  why  ask  what  may  not  be  given? 

To  some  will  come  a  time  when  change 
Itself  is  beauty,  if  not  heaven. 

One  afternoon  Priscilla  spoke, 
And  her  shrill  history  was  done; 

At  any 'rate,  she  never  spoke 
Like  that  again  to  anyone. 

One  gold  October  afternoon 

Great  fury  smote  the  silent  air; 

And  then  Llewellyn  leapt  and  fled 
Like  one  with  hornets  in  his  hair. 

Llewellyn  left  us,  and  he  said 

Forever,  leaving  few  to  doubt  him; 

And  so,  through  frost  and  clicking  leaves, 
The  Tilbury  way  went  on  without  him. 

And  slowly,  through  the  Tilbury  mist, 
The  stillness  of  October  gold 

Went  out  like  beauty  from  a  face. 
Priscilla  watched  it,  and  grew  old. 

He  fled,  still  clutching  in  his  flight 
The  roses  that  had  been  his  fall; 

The  Scarlet  One,  as  you  surmise, 
Fled  with  him,  coral,  rouge,  and  all. 
52 


LLEWELLYN  AND  THE  TREE 

Priscilla,  waiting,  saw  the  change 
Of  twenty  slow  October  moons; 

And  then  she  vanished,  in  her  turn 
To  he  forgotten,  like  old  tunes. 

So  they  were  gone — all  three  of  them, 
I  should  have  said,  and  said  no  more, 

Had  not  a  face  once  on  Broadway 
Been  one  that  I  had  seen  before. 

The  face  and  hands  and  hair  were  old, 
But   neither   time  nor  penury 

Could  quench  within  Llewellyn's  eyes 
The  shine  of  his  one  victory. 

The  roses,  faded  and  gone  by, 

Left  ruin  where  they  once  had  reigned; 
But  on  the  wreck,  as  on  old  shells, 

The  color  of  the  rose  remained. 

His  fictive  merchandise  I  bought 
For  him  to  keep  and  show  again, 

Then  led  him  slowly  from  the  crush 
Of  his  cold-shouldered  fellow  men. 

"And  so,  Llewellyn,"  I  began — 
"Not  so,"  he  said ;  "not  so  at  all : 

I've  tried  the  world,  and  found  it  good, 
For  more  than  twenty  years  this  fall. 

"And  what  the  world  has  left  of  me 
Will  go  now  in  a  little  while." 

And  what  the  world  had  left  of  him 
Was  partly  an  unholy  guile. 
53 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"That  I  have  paid  for  being  calm 
Is  what  you  see,  if  you  have  eyes ; 

For  let  a  man  be  calm  too  long, 
He  pays  for  much  before  he  dies. 

"Be  calm  when  you  are  growing  old 
And  you  have  nothing  else  to  do; 

Pour  not  the  wine  of  life  too  thin 
If  water  means  the  death  of  you. 

"You  say  I  might  have  learned  at  home 
The  truth  in  season  to  be  strong? 

Not  so;  I  took  the  wine  of  life 
Too  thin,  and  I  was  calm  too  long. 

"Like  others  who  are  strong  too  late, 
For  me  there  was  no  going  back; 

For  I  had  found  another  speed, 
And  I  was  on  the  other  track. 

"God  knows  how  far  I  might  have  gone 
Or  what  there  might  have  been  to  see; 

But  my  speed  had  a  sudden  end, 
And  here  you  have  the  end  of  me." 

The  end  or  not,  it  may  be  now 
But  little  farther  from  the  truth 

To  say  those  worn  satiric  eyes 
Had  something  of  immortal  youth. 

He  may  among  the  millions  here 
Be  one;  or  he  may,  quite  as  well, 

Be  gone  to  find  again  the  Tree 

Of  Knowledge,  out  of  which  he  fell. 
54 


He  may  be  near  us,  dreaming  yet 
Of  unrepented  rouge  and  coral; 

Or  in  a  grave  without  a  name 
May  be  as  far  off  as  a  moral. 


BEWICK  FINZER 


TIME  was  when  his  half  million  drew 

The  breath  of  six  per  cent; 
But  soon  the  worm  of  what-was-not 

Fed  hard  on  his  content; 
And  something  crumbled  in  his  brain 

When  his  half  million  went. 

Time  passed,  and  filled  along  with  his 

The  place  of  many  more; 
Time  came,  and  hardly  one  of  us 

Had  credence  .to  restore, 
From  what  appeared  one  day,  the  man 

Whom  we  had  known  before. 

The  broken  voice,  the  withered  neck, 

The  coat  worn  out  with  care, 
The  cleanliness  of  indigence, 

The  brilliance  of  despair, 
The  fond  imponderable  dreams 

Of  affluence, — all  were  there. 

Poor  Finzer,  with  his  dreams  and  schemes, 

Fares  hard  now  in  the  race, 
With  heart  and  eye  that  have  a  task 

When  he  looks  in  the  face 
Of  one  who  might  so  easily 

Have  been  in  Finzer's  place. 
55 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  comes  unfailing  for  the  loan 
We  give  and  then  forget; 

He  comes,  and  probably  for  years 
Will  he  be  coming  yet, — 

Familiar  as  an  old  mistake, 
And  futile  as  regret. 


BOKARDO 

WELL,  Bokardo,  here  we  are; 

Make  yourself  at  home. 
Look  around — you  haven't  far 

To  look — and  why  be  dumb? 
Not  the  place  that  used  to  be, 
Not  so  many  things  to  see; 
But  there's  room  for  you  and  me. 

And  you — you've  come. 

Talk  a  little;  or,  if  not, 

Show  me  with  a  sign 
Why  it  was  that  you  forgot 

What  was  yours  and  mine. 
Friends,  I  gather,  are  small  things 
In  an  age  when  coins  are  kings; 
Even  at  that,  one  hardly  flings 

Friends  before  swine. 

Rather  strong?    I  knew  as  much, 

For  it  made  you  speak. 
No  offense  to  swine,  as  such, 

But  why  this  hide-and-seek? 
You  have  something  on  your  side, 
And  you  wish  you  might  have  died, 
So  you  tell  me.    And  you  tried 

One  night  last  week? 
56 


BOKARDO 

You  tried  hard?    And  even  then 

Found  a  time  to  pause? 
When  you  try  as  hard  again, 
You'll  have  another  cause. 
When  you  find  yourself  at  odds 
With  all  dreamers  of  all  gods, 
You  may  smite  yourself  with  rods- 
But  not  the  laws. 

Though  they  seem  to  show  a  spite 

Rather  devilish, 
They  move  on  as  with  a  might 

Stronger  than  your  wish. 
Still,  however  strong  they  be, 
They  bide  man's  authority: 
Xerxes,  when  he  flogged  the  sea, 

May've  scared  a  fish. 

It's  a  comfort,  if  you  like, 

To  keep  honor  warm, 
But  as  often  as  you  strike 

The  laws,  you  do  no  harm. 
To  the  laws,  I  mean.    To  you — 
That's  another  point  of  view, 
One  you  may  as  well  indue 

With  some  alarm. 

Not  the  most  heroic  face 

To  present,  I  grant; 
Nor  will  you  insure  disgrace 

By  fearing  what  you  want. 
Freedom  has  a  world  of  sides, 
And  if  reason  once  derides 
Courage,  then  your  courage  hides 

A  deal  of  cant. 

57 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Learn  a  little  to  forget 

Life  was  once  a  feast; 
You  aren't  fit  for  dying  yet, 

So  don't  be  a  beast. 
Few  men  with  a  mind  will  say, 
Thinking  twice,  that  they  can  pay 
Half  their  debts  of  yesterday, 

Or  be  released. 

There's  a  debt  now  on  your  mind 

More  than  any  gold? 
And  there's  nothing  you  can  find 

Out  there  in  the  cold? 
Only — what's  his  name? — Remorse? 
And  Death  riding  on  his  horse? 
Well,  be  glad  there's  nothing  worse 

Than  you  have  told. 

Leave  Remorse  to  warm  his  hands 

Outside  in  the  rain. 
As  for  Death,  he  understands, 

And  he  will  come  again. 
Therefore,  till  your  wits  are  clear, 
Flourish  and  be  quiet — here. 
But  a  devil  at  each  ear 

Will  be  a  strain? 

Past  a  doubt  they  will  indeed, 
More  than  you  have  earned. 

I  say  that  because  you  need 
Ablution,  being  burned? 

Well,  if  you  must  have  it  so, 

Your  last  flight  went  rather  low. 

Better  say  you  had  to  know 
What  you  have  learned. 
58 


BOKARDO 

And  that's  over.    Here  you  are, 

Battered  by  the  past. 
Time  will  have  his  little  scar, 

But  the  wound  won't  last. 
Nor  shall  harrowing  surprise 
Find  a  world  without  its  eyes 
If  a  star  fades  when  the  skies 

Are  overcast. 

God  knows  there  are  lives  enough, 

Crushed,  and  too  far  gone 
Longer  to  make  sermons  of, 
And  those  we  leave  alone. 
Others,  if  they  will,  may  rend 
The  worn  patience  of  a  friend 
Who,  though  smiling,  sees  the  end, 
With  nothing  done. 

But  your  fervor  to  be  free 
Fled  the  faith  it  scorned; 

Death  demands  a  decency 
Of  you,  and  you  are  warned. 

But  for  all  we  give  we  get 

Mostly  blows?     Don't  be  upset; 

You,  Bokardo,  are  not  yet 
Consumed  or  mourned. 

There'll  be  falling  into  view 

Much  to  rearrange; 
And  there'll  be  a  time  for  you 

To  marvel  at  the  change. 
They  that  have  the  least  to  fear 
Question  hardest  what  is  here; 
When  long-hidden  skies  are  clear, 

The  stars  look  strange 
59 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


THE   MAN  AGAINST  THE   SKY 

BETWEEN  me  and  the  sunset,  like  a  dome 

Against  the  glory  of  a  world  on  fire, 

Now  burned  a  sudden  hill, 

Bleak,  round,  and  high,  by  flame-lit  height  made  higher, 

With  nothing  on  it  for  the  flame  to  kill 

Save  one  who  moved  and  was  alone  up  there 

To  loom  before  the  chaos  and  the  glare 

As  if  he  were  the  last  god  going  home 

Unto  his  last  desire. 

Dark,  marvelous,  and  inscrutable  he  moved  on 

Till  down  the  fiery  distance  he  was  gone, 

Like  one  of  those  eternal,  remote  things 

That  range  across  a  man's  imaginings 

When  a  sure  music  fills  him  and  he  knows 

What  he  may  say  thereafter  to  few  men, — 

The  touch  of  ages  having  wrought 

An  echo  and  a  glimpse  of  what  he  thought 

A  phantom  or  a  legend  until  then; 

For  whether  lighted  over  ways  that  save, 

Or  lured  from  all  repose, 

If  he  go  on  too  far  to  find  a  grave, 

Mostly  alone  he  goes. 

Even  he,  who  stood  where  I  had  found  him, 
On  high  with  fire  all  round  him, 
Who  moved  along  the  molten  west, 
And  over  the  round  hill's  crest 
That  seemed  half  ready  with  him  to  go  down, 
Flame-bitten  and  flame-cleft, 
As  if  there  were  to  be  no  last  thing  left 
Of  a  nameless  unimaginable  town, — 
60 


THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 

Even  he  who  climbed  and  vanished  may  have  taken 

Down  to  the  perils  of  a  depth  not  known, 

From  death  defended  though  by  men  forsaken, 

The  bread  that  every  man  must  eat  alone; 

He  may  have  walked  while  others  hardly  dared 

Look  on  to  see  him  stand  where  many  fell; 

And  upward  out  of  that,  as  out  of  hell, 

He  may  have  sung  and  striven 

To  mount  where  more  of  him  shall  yet  be  given, 

Bereft  of  all  retreat, 

To  sevenfold  heat, — 

As  on  a  day  when  three  in  Dura  shared 

The  furnace,  and  were  spared 

For  glory  by  that  king  of  Babylon 

Who  made  himself  so  great  that  God,  who  heard, 

Covered  him  with  long  feathers,  like  a  bird. 

Again,  he  may  have  gone  down  easily, 
By  comfortable  altitudes,  and  found, 
As  always,  underneath  him  solid  ground 
Whereon  to  be  sufficient  and  to  stand 
Possessed  already  of  the  promised  land, 
Far  stretched  and  fair  to  see: 
A  good  sight,  verily, 

And  one  to  make  the  eyes  of  her  who  bore  him 
Shine  glad  with  hidden  tears. 
Why  question  of  his  ease  of  who  before  him, 
In  one  place  or  another  where  they  left 
Their  names  as  far  behind  them  as  their  bones, 
And  yet  by  dint  of  slaughter  toil  and  theft, 
And  shrewdly  sharpened  stones, 
Carved  hard  the  way  for  his  ascendency 
Through  deserts  of  lost  years? 
Why  trouble  him  now  who  sees  and  hears 
No  more  than  what  his  innocence  requires, 
61 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  therefore  to  no  other  height  aspires 
Than  one  at  which  he  neither  quails  nor  tires? 
He  may  do  more  by  seeing  what  he  sees 
Than  others  eager  for  iniquities; 
He  may,  by  seeing  all  things  for  the  best, 
Incite  futurity  to  do  the  rest. 

Or  with  an  even  likelihood, 

He  may  have  met  with  atrabilious  eyes 

The  fires  of  time  on  equal  terms  and  passed 

Indifferently  down,  until  at  last 

His  only  kind  of  grandeur  would  have  been, 

Apparently,  in  being  seen. 

He  may  have  had  for  evil  or  for  good 

No  argument;  he  may  have  had  no  care 

For  what  without  himself  went  anywhere 

To  failure  or  to  glory,  and  least  of  all 

For  such  a  stale,  flamboyant  miracle; 

He  may  have  been  the  prophet  of  an  art 

Immovable  to  old  idolatries; 

He  may  have  been  a  player  without  a  part, 

Annoyed  that  even  the  sun  should  have  the  skies 

For  such  a  flaming  way  to  advertise; 

He  may  have  been  a  painter  sick  at  heart 

With  Nature's  toiling  for  a  new  surprise; 

He  may  have  been  a  cynic,  who  now,  for  all 

Of  anything  divine  that  his  effete 

Negation  may  have  tasted, 

Saw  truth  in  his  own  image,  rather  small, 

Forbore  to  fever  the  ephemeral, 

Found  any  barren  height  a  good  retreat 

From  any  swarming  street, 

And  in  the  sun  saw  power  superbly  wasted; 

And  when  the  primitive  old-fashioned  stars 

Came  out  again  to  shine  on  joys  and  wars 

62 


THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 

More  primitive,  and  all  arrayed  for  doom, 
He  may  have  proved  a  world  a  sorry  thing 
In  his  imagining, 
And  life  a  lighted  highway  to  the  tomb. 

Or,  mounting  with  infirm  unsearching  tread, 
His  hopes  to  chaos  led, 

He  may  have  stumbled  up  there  from  the  past, 
And  with  an  aching  strangeness  viewed  the  last 
Abysmal  conflagration  of  his  dreams, — 
A  flame  where  nothing  seems 
To  burn  but  flame  itself,  by  nothing  fed; 
And  while  it  all  went  out, 
Not  even  the  faint  anodyne  of  doubt 
May  then  have  eased  a  painful  going  down 
From  pictured  heights  of  power  and  lost  renown, 
Eevealed  at  length  to  his  outlived  endeavor 
Remote  and  unapproachable  forever; 
And  at  his  heart  there  may  have  gnawed 
Sick  memories  of  a  dead  faith  foiled  and  flawed 
And  long  dishonored  by  the  living  death 
Assigned  alike  by  chance 
To  brutes  and  hierophants; 

And  anguish  fallen  on  those  he  loved  around  him 
May  once  have  dealt  the  last  blow  to  confound  him, 
And  so  have  left  him  as  death  leaves  a  child, 
Who  sees  it  all  too  near; 
And  he  who  knows  no  young  way  to  forget 
May  struggle  to  the  tomb  unreconciled. 
Whatever  suns  may  rise  or  set 
There  may  be  nothing  kinder  for  him  here 
Than  shafts  and  agonies; 
And  under  these 

He  may  cry  out  and  stay  on  horribly; 
Or,  seeing  in  death  too  small  a  thing  to  fear, 
63 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  may  go  forward  like  a  stoic  Roman 
Where  pangs  and  terrors  in  his  pathway  lie, — 
Or,  seizing  the  swift  logic  of  a  woman, 
Curse  God  and  die. 

Or  maybe  there,  like  many  another  one 

Who  might  have  stood  aloft  and  looked  ahead, 

Black-drawn  against  wild  red, 

He  may  have  built,  unawed  by  fiery  gules 

That  in  him  no  commotion  stirred, 

A  living  reason  out  of  molecules 

Why  molecules  occurred, 

And  one  for  smiling  when  he  might  have  sighed 

Had  he  seen  far  enough, 

And  in  the  same  inevitable  stuff 

Discovered  an  odd  reason  too  for  pride 

In  being  what  he  must  have  been  by  laws 

Infrangible  and  for  no  kind  of  cause. 

Deterred  by  no  confusion  or  surprise 

He  may  have  seen  with  his  mechanic  eyes 

A  world  without  a  meaning,  and  had  room, 

Alone  amid  magnificence  and  doom, 

To  build  himself  an  airy  monument 

That  should,  or  fail  him  in  his  vague  intent, 

Outlast  an  accidental  universe — 

To  call  it  nothing  worse — 

Or,  by  the  burrowing  guile 

Of  Time  disintegrated  and  effaced, 

Like  once-remembered  mighty  trees  go  down 

To  ruin,  of  which  by  man  may  now  be  traced 

No  part  sufficient  even  to  be  rotten, 

And  in  the  book  of  things  that  are  forgotten 

Is  entered  as  a  thing  not  quite  worth  while. 

He  may  have  been  so  great 

That  satraps  would  have  shivered  at  his  frown, 

64 


THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 

And  all  he  prized  alive  may  rule  a  state 

No  larger  than  a  grave  that  holds  a  clown; 

He  may  have  been  a  master  of  his  fate, 

And  of  his  atoms,  —  ready  as  another 

In  his  emergence  to  exonerate 

His  father  and  his  mother; 

He  may  have  been  a  captain  of  a  host, 

Self-eloquent  and  ripe  for  prodigies, 

Doomed  here  to  swell  by  dangerous  degrees, 

And  then  give  up  the  ghost. 

Nahum's  great  grasshoppers  were  such  as  these, 

Sun-scattered  and  soon  lost. 

Whatever  the^  dark  j*pad  he  may  have  taken. 

This  man^who  stood  on  high 

And  faced  alone  the  sky, 

Whatever  drove  or  lured  or  guided  him,  — 

A  vision  answering  a  faith  unshaken, 

An  easy  trust  assumed  of  easy  trials, 

A  sick  negation  born  of  weak  denials, 

A  crazed  abhorrence  of  an  old  condition, 

A  blind  attendance  on  a  brief  ambition,  — 

Whatever  stayed  him  or  derided  him, 

TTJS    wpy    -was    PVPTi 


And  we,  with  all  our  wounds  and  all  our  powers, 
Must  each  await  alone  at  his  own  height 
Another  darkness  or  another  light; 
And  there,  of  our  poor  self  dominion  reft, 
If  inference  and  reason  shun 
Hell,  Heaven,  and  Oblivion, 
May  thwarted  will  (perforce  precarious, 
But  for  our  conservation  better  thus) 
Have  no  misgiving  left 
Of  doing  yet  what  here  we  leave  undone? 
Or  if  unto  the  last  of  these  we  cleave, 
65 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Believing  or  protesting  we  believe 

In  such  an  idle  and  ephemeral 

Florescence  of  the  diabolical, — 

If,  robbed  of  two  fond  old  enormities, 

Our  being  had  no  onward  auguries, 

What  then  were  this  great  love  of  ours  to  say 

For  launching  other  lives  to  voyage  again 

A  little  farther  into  time  and  pain, 

A  little  faster  in  a  futile  chase 

For  a  kingdom  and  a  power  and  a  Race 

That  would  have  still  in  sight 

A  manifest  end  of  ashes  and  eternal  night? 

Is  this  the  music  of  the  toys  we  shake 

So  loud, — as  if  there  might  be  no  mistake 

Somewhere  in  our  indomitable  will? 

Are  we  no  greater  than  the  noise  we  make 

Along  one  blind  atomic  pilgrimage 

Whereon  by  crass  chance  billeted  we  go 

Because  our  brains  and  bones  and  cartilage 

Will  have  it  so? 

If  this  we  say,  then  let  us  all  be  still 

About  our  share  in  it,  and  live  and  die 

More  quietly  thereby. 

Where  was  he  going,  this  man  against  the  sky? 

You  know  not,  nor  do  I. 

But  this  we  know,  if  we  know  anything: 

That  we  may  laugh  and  fight  and  sing 

And  of  our  transience  here  make  offering 

To  an  orient  Word  that  will  not  be  erased, 

Or,  save  in  incommunicable  gleams 

Too  permanent  for  dreams, 

Be  found  or  known. 

No  tonic  and  ambitious  irritant 

Of  increase  or  of  want 

66 


THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 

Has  made  an  otherwise  insensate  waste 

Of  ages  overthrown 

A  ruthless,  veiled,  implacable  foretaste 

Of  other  ages  that  are  still  to  be 

Depleted  and  rewarded  variously 

Because  a  few,  by  fate's  economy, 

Shall  seem  to  move  the  world  the  way  it  goes; 

No  soft  evangel  of  equality, 

Safe-cradled  in  a  communal  repose 

That  huddles  into  death  and  may  at  last 

Be  covered  well  with  equatorial  snows — 

And  all  for  what,  the  devil  only  knows — 

Will  aggregate  an  inkling  to  confirm 

The  credit  of  a  sage  or  of  a  worm, 

Or  tell  us  why  one  man  in  five 

Should  have  a  care  to  stay  alive 

While  in  his  heart  he  feels  no  violence 

Laid  on  his  humor  and  intelligence 

When  infant  Science  makes  a  pleasant  face 

And  waves  again  that  hollow  toy,  the  Race; 

No  planetary  trap  where  souls  are  wrought 

For  nothing  but  the  sake  of  being  caught 

And  sent  again  to  nothing  will  attune 

Itself  to  any  key  of  any  reason 

Why  man  should  hunger  through  another  season 

To  find  out  why  'twere  better  late  than  soon 

To  go  away  and  let  the  sun  and  moon 

And  all  the  silly  stars  illuminate 

A  place  for  creeping  things, 

And  those  that  root  and  trumpet  and  have  wings, 

And  herd  and  ruminate, 

Or  dive  and  flash  and  poise  in  rivers  and  seas, 

Or  by  their  loyal  tails  in  lofty  trees 

Hang  screeching  lewd  victorious  derision 

Of  man's  immortal  vision. 

67 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Shall  we,  because  Eternity  records 
Too  vast  an  answer  for  the  time-born  words 
We  spell,  whereof  so  many  are  dead  that  once 
In  our  capricious  lexicons 
Were  so  alive  and  final,  hear  no  more 
The  Word  itself,  the  living  word 
That  none  alive  has  ever  heard 
Or  ever  spelt, 
And  few  have  ever  felt 
Without  the  fears  and  old  surrenderings 
And  terrors  that  began 

When  Death  let  fall  a  feather  from  his  wings 
And  humbled  the  first  man? 
Because  the  weight  of  our  humility, 
Wherefrom  we  gain 
A  little  wisdom  and  much  pain, 
Falls  here  too  sore  and  there  too  tedious, 
Are  we  in  anguish  or  complacency, 
Not  looking  far  enough  ahead 
To  see  by  what  mad  couriers  we  are  led 
Along  the  roads  of  the  ridiculous, 
To  pity  ourselves  and  laugh  at  faith 
And  while  we  curse  life  bear  it? 
And  if  we  see  the  soul's  dead  end  in  death, 
Are  we  to  fear  it? 

What  folly  is  here  that  has  not  yet  a  name 
Unless  we  say  outright  that  we  are  liars  ? 
What  have  we  seen  beyond  our  sunset  fires 
That  lights  again  the  way  by  which  we  came? 
Why  pay  we  such  a  price,  and  one  we  give 
So  clamoringly,  for  each  racked  empty  day 
That  leads  one  more  last  human  hope  away, 
As  quiet  fiends  would  lead  past  our  crazed  eyes 
Our  children  to  an  unseen  sacrifice? 
If  after  all  that  we  have  lived  and  thought, 
68 


THE  MAN  AGAINST  THE  SKY 

All  comes  to  Nought, — 

If  there  be  nothing  after  Now, 

And  we  be  nothing  anyhow, 

And  we  know  that, — why  live? 

'Twere  sure  but  weaklings'  vain  distress 

To  suffer  dungeons  where  so  many  doors 

Will  open  on  the  cold  eternal  shores 

That  look  sheer  down 

To  the  dark  tideless  floods  of  Nothingness 

Where  all  who  know  may  drown. 


69 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  NIGHT 

(1890-1897) 

To  the  Memory  of 
My  Father  and  Mother 


JOHN  EVERELDOWN 

"WHERE  are  you  going  to-night,  to-night, — 
Where  are  you  going,  John  Evereldown? 

There's  never  the  sign  of  a  star  in  sight, 
Nor  a  lamp  that's  nearer  than  Tilbury  Town. 

Why  do  you  stare  as  a  dead  man  might? 

Where  are  you  pointing  away  from  the  light? 

And  where  are  you  going  to-night,  to-night, — 
Where  are  you  going,  John  Evereldown?" 

"Right  through  the  forest,  where  none  can  see, 
There's  where  I'm  going,  to  Tilbury  Town. 

The  men  are  asleep, — or  awake,  may  be, — 
But  the  women  are  calling  John  Evereldown. 

Ever  and  ever  they  call  for  me, 

And  while  they  call  can  a  man  be  free? 

So  right  through  the  forest,  where  none  can  see, 
There's  where  I'm  going,  to  Tilbury  Town." 

"But  why  are  you  going  so  late,  so  late, — • 
Why  are  you  going,  John  Evereldown  ? 

Though  the  road  be  smooth  and  the  way  be  straight, 
There  are  two  long  leagues  to  Tilbury  Town. 

Come  in  by  the  fire,  old  man,  and  wait ! 

Why  do  you  chatter  out  there  by  the  gate  ? 

And  why  are  you  going  so  late,  so  late, — 
Why  are  you  going,  John  Evereldown  ?" 

T3 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"I  follow  the  women  wherever  they  call, — 

That's  why  I'm  going  to  Tilbury  Town. 

God  knows  if  I  pray  to  be  done  with  it  all, 

But  God  is  no  friend  to  John  Evereldown. 
So  the  clouds  may  come  and  the  rain  may  fall, 
The  shadows  may  creep  and  the  dead  men  crawl, — 
But  I  follow  the  women  wherever  they  call, 
And  that's  why  I'm  going  to  Tilbury  Town." 


LUKE  HAVERGAL 

Go  to  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal, 
There  where  the  vines  cling  crimson  on  the  wall, 
And  in  the  twilight  wait  for  what  will  come. 
The  leaves  will  whisper  there  of  her,  and  some, 
Like  flying  words,  will  strike  you  as  they  fall; 
But  go,  and  if  you  listen  she  will  call. 
Go  to  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal — 
Luke  Havergal. 

No,  there  is  not  a  dawn  in  eastern  skies 
To  rift  the  fiery  night  that's  in  your  eyes; 
But  there,  where  western  glooms  are  gathering, 
The  dark  will  end  the  dark,  if  anything : 
God  slays  Himself  with  every  leaf  that  flies, 
And  hell  is  more  than  half  of  paradise. 
No,  there  is  not  a  dawn  in  eastern  skies — 
In  eastern  skies. 

Out  of  a  grave  I  come  to  tell  you  this, 
Out  of  a  grave  I  come  to  quench  the  kiss 
That  flames  upon  your  forehead  with  a  glow 
That  blinds  you  to  the  way  that  you  must  go. 
74 


THREE  QUATRAINS 

Yes,  there  is  yet  one  way  to  where  she  is, 
Bitter,  but  one  that  faith  may  never  miss. 
Out  of  a  grave  I  come  to  tell  you  this — 
To  tell  you  this. 

There  is  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal, 
There  are  the  crimson  leaves  upon  the  wall. 
Go,  for  the  winds  are  tearing  them  away, — 
Nor  think  to  riddle  the  dead  words  they  say, 
Nor  any  more  to  feel  them  as  they  fall ; 
But  go,  and  if  you  trust  her  she  will  call. 
There  is  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal — 
Luke  Havergal. 


THREE  QUATRAINS 


As  long  as  Fame's  imperious  music  rings 

Will  poets  mock  it  with  crowned  words  august; 

And  haggard  men  will  clamber  to  be  kings 
As  long  as  Glory  weighs  itself  in  dust. 

II 

Drink  to  the  splendor  of  the  unfulfilled, 
Nor  shudder  for  the  revels  that  are  done: 

The  wines  that  flushed  Lucullus  are  all  spilled, 
The  strings  that  Nero  fingered  are  all  gone. 

rn 

We  cannot  crown  ourselves  with  everything, 
Nor  can  we  coax  the  Fates  for  us  to  quarrel : 
75 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

No  matter  what  we  are,  or  what  we  sing, 
Time  finds  a  withered  leaf  in  every  laurel. 


AN  OLD  STORY 

STRANGE  that  I  did  not  know  him  then, 

That  friend  of  mine! 
I  did  not  even  show  him  then 

One  friendly  sign; 

But  cursed  him  for  the  ways  he  had 

To  make  me  see 
My  envy  of  the  praise  he  had 

For  praising  me. 

I  would  have  rid  the  earth  of  him 

Once,  in  my  pride.  .  .  . 
I  never  knew  the  worth  of  him 

Until  he  died. 


BALLADE   BY  THE  FIRE 

SLOWLY  I  smoke  and  hug  my  knee, 
The  while  a  witless  masquerade 

Of  things  that  only  children  see 
Floats  in  a  mist  of  light  and  shade : 
They  pass,  a  flimsy  cavalcade, 

And  with  a  weak,  remindful  glow, 
The  falling  embers  break  and  fade, 

As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 
76 


BALLADE  OF  BROKEN  FLUTES 

Then,  with  a  melancholy  glee 

To  think  where  once  my  fancy  strayed, 
I  muse  on  what  the  years  may  be 

Whose  coming  tales  are  all  unsaid, 

Till  tongs  and  shovel,  snugly  laid 
Within  their  shadowed  niches,  grow 

By  grim  degrees  to  pick  and  spade, 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 

But  then,  what  though  the  mystic  Three 

Around  me  ply  their  merry  trade? — 
And  Charon  soon  may  carry  me 

Across  the  gloomy  Stygian  glade? — 

Be  up,  my  soul ;  nor  be  afraid 
Of  what  some  unborn  year  may  show ; 

But  mind  your  human  debts  are  paid, 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 

ENVOY 

Life  is  the  game  that  must  be  played: 

This  truth  at  least,  good  friends,  we  know; 

So  live  and  laugh,  nor  be  dismayed 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 


BALLADE  OF  BROKEN  FLUTES 

(To  A.  T.  Schumann) 

IN  dreams  I  crossed  a  barren  land, 
A  land  of  ruin,  far  away ; 

Around  me  hung  on  every  hand 
A  deathful  stillness  of  decay; 
And  silent,  as  in  bleak  dismay 
77 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  song  should  thus  forsaken  be, 

On  that  forgotten  ground  there  lay 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 

The  forest  that  was  all  so  grand 

When  pipes  and  tabors  had  their  sway 
Stood  leafless  now,  a  ghostly  band 

Of  skeletons  in  cold  array. 

A  lonely  surge  of  ancient  spray 
Told  of  an  unforgetful  sea, 

But  iron  blows  had  hushed  for  aye 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 

No  more  by  summer  breezes  fanned, 

The  place  was  desolate  and  gray; 
But  still  my  dream  was  to  command 

New  life  into  that  shrunken  clay. 

I  tried  it.    And  you  scan  to-day, 
With  uncommiserating  glee, 

The  songs  of  one  who  strove  to  play 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 

ENVOY 

So,  Rock,  I  join  the  common  fray, 
To  fight  where  Mammon  may  decree; 

And  leave,  to  crumble  as  they  may, 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 


HER  EYES 

UP  from  the  street  and  the  crowds  that  went, 

Morning  and  midnight,  to  and  fro, 
Still  was  the  room  where  his  days  he  spent, 

And  the  stars  were  bleak,  and  the  nights  were  slow. 
T8 


HER  EYES 

Year  after  year,  with  his  dream  shut  fast, 
He  suffered  and  strove  till  his  eyes  were  dim, 

"For  the  love  that  his  brushes  had  earned  at  last, 
And  the  whole  world  rang  with  the  praise  of  him. 

But  he  cloaked  his  triumph,  and  searched,  instead, 
Till  his  cheeks  were  sere  and  his  hairs  were  gray. 

"There  are  women  enough,  God  knows,"  he  said  .  .  . 
"There  are  stars  enough — when  the  sun's  away." 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  same  still  room 
That  had  held  his  dream  in  the  long  ago, 

When  he  buried  his  days  in  a  nameless  tomb, 

And  the  stars  were  bleak,  and  the  nights  were  slow. 

And  a  passionate  humor  seized  him  there — 
Seized  him  and  held  him  until  there  grew 

Like  life  on  his  canvas,  glowing  and  fair, 
A  perilous  face — and  an  angel's  too. 

Angel  and  maiden,  and  all  in  one, — 

All  but  the  eyes.     They  were  there,  but  yet 

They  seemed  somehow  like  a  soul  half  done. 
What  was  the  matter  ?    Did  God  forget  ?  .  .  . 

But  he  wrought  them  at  last  with  a  skill  so  sure 
That  her  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  deathless  woman,- 

With  a  gleam  of  heaven  to  make  them  pure, 
And  a  glimmer  of  hell  to  make  them  human. 

God  never  forgets. — And  he  worships  her 

There  in  that  same  still  room  of  his, 
For  his  wife,  and  his  constant  arbiter 

Of  the  world  that  was  and  the  world  that  is. 
79 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  he  wonders  yet  what  her  love  could  be 
To  punish  him  after  that  strife  so  grim ; 

But  the  longer  he  lives  with  her  eyes  to  see, 
The  plainer  it  all  comes  back  to  him. 


TWO  MEN 

THERE  be  two  men  of  all  mankind 
That  I  should  like  to  know  about; 

But  search  and  question  where  I  will, 
I  cannot  ever  find  them  out. 

Melchizedek,  he  praised  the  Lord, 
And  gave  some  wine  to  Abraham ; 

But  who  can  tell  what  else  he  did 
Must  be  more  learned  than  I  am. 

TJcalegon,  he  lost  his  house 
When  Agamemnon  came  to  Troy; 

But  who  can  tell  me  who  he  was — 
I'll  pray  the  gods  to  give  him  joy. 

There  be  two  men  of  all  mankind 
That  I'm  forever  thinking  on : 

They  chase  me  everywhere  I  go, — 
Melchizedek,  TJcalegon. 


VILLANELLE  OF  CHANGE 

SINCE  Persia  fell  at  Marathon, 

The  yellow  years  have  gathered  fast: 
Long  centuries  have  come  and  gone. 
80 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 

And  yet  (they  say)  the  place  will  don 

A  phantom  fury  of  the  past, 
Since  Persia  fell  at  Marathon; 

And  as  of  old,  when  Helicon 

Trembled  and  swayed  with  rapture  vast 
(Long  centuries  have  come  and  gone), 

This  ancient  plain,  when  night  comes  on, 

Shakes  to  a  ghostly  battle-blast, 
Since  Persia  fell  at  Marathon. 

But  into  soundless  Acheron 

The  glory  of  Greek  shame  was  cast: 
Long  centuries  have  come  and  gone, 

The  suns  of  Hellas  have  all  shone, 

The  first  has  fallen  to  the  last: — 
Since  Persia  fell  at  Marathon, 
Long  centuries  have  come  and  gone. 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 

THEY  are  all  gone  away, 

The  House  is  shut  and  still, 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 

Through  broken  walls  and  gray 

The  winds  blow  bleak  and  shrill: 
They  are  all  gone  away. 

"Nor  is  there  one  to-day 

To  speak  them  good  or  ill : 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 
81 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Why  is  it  then  we  stray 

Around  the  sunken  sill? 
They  are  all  gone  away, 

And  our  poor  fancy-play 

For  them  is  wasted  skill: 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 

There  is  ruin  and  decay 

In  the  House  on  the  Hill: 
They  are  all  gone  away, 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 


RICHARD  CORY 

WHENEVER  Richard  Cory  went  down  town, 
We  people  on  the  pavement  looked  at  him : 
He  was  a  gentleman  from  sole  to  crown, 
Clean  favored,  and  imperially  slim. 

And  he  was  always  quietly  arrayed, 
And  he  was  always  human  when  he  talked; 
But  still  he  fluttered  pulses  when  he  said, 
"Good-morning,"  and  he  glittered  when  he  walked. 

And  he  was  rich — yes,  richer  than  a  king-r- 
And  admirably  schooled  in  every  grace: 
In  fine,  we  thought  that  he  was  everything- 
To  make  us  wish  that  we  were  in  his  place. 

So  on  we  worked,  and  waited  for  the  light, 
And  went  without  the  meat,  and  cursed  the  bread ; 
And  Richard  Cory,  one  calm  summer  night, 
Went  home  and  put  a  bullet  through  his  head. 


DEAR  FRIENDS 

BOSTON 

MY  northern  pines  are  good  enough  for  me, 
But  there's  a  town  my  memory  uprears — 
A  town  that  always  like  a  friend  appears, 
And  always  in  the  sunrise  by  the  sea. 
And  over  it,  somehow,  there  seems  to  be 
A  downward  flash  of  something  new  and  fierce, 
That  ever  strives  to  clear,  but  never  clears 
The  dimness  of  a  charmed  antiquity. 

CALVARY 

FRIENDLESS  and  faint,  with  martyred  steps  and  slow, 

Faint  for  the  flesh,  but  for  the  spirit  free, 

Stung  by  the  mob  that  came  to  see  the  show, 

The  Master  toiled  along  to  Calvary; 

We  gibed  him,  as  he  went,  with  houndish  glee, 

Till  his  dimned  eyes  for  us  did  overflow; 

We  cursed  his  vengeless  hands  thrice  wretchedly, — 

And  this  was  nineteen  hundred  years  ago. 

But  after  nineteen  hundred  years  the  shame 
Still  clings,  and  we  have  not  made  good  the  loss 
That  outraged  faith  has  entered  in  his  name. 
Ah,  when  shall  come  love's  courage  to  be  strong! 
Tell  me,  O  Lord — tell  me,  O  Lord,  how  long 
Are  we  to  keep  Christ  writhing  on  the  cross  1 

DEAR  FRIENDS 

DEAR  friends,  reproach  me  not  for  what  I  do, 
Nor  counsel  me,  nor  pity  me;  nor  say 
That  I  am  wearing  half  my  life  away 
For  bubble-work  that  only  fools  pursue. 
83 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  if  my  bubbles  be  too  small  for  you, 
Blow  bigger  then  your  own :  the  games  we  play 
To  fill  the  frittered  minutes  of  a  day, 
Good  glasses  are  to  read  the  spirit  through. 

And  whoso  reads  may  get  him  some  shrewd  skill; 

And  some  unprofitable  scorn  resign, 

To  praise  the  very  thing  that  he  deplores; 

So,  friends  (dear  friends),  remember,  if  you  will, 

The  shame  I  win  for  singing  is  all  mine, 

The  gold  I  miss  for  dreaming  is  all  yours. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  ASHES  AND  THE  FLAME 

No  matter  why,  nor  whence,  nor  when  she  came, 
There  was  her  place.     No  matter  what  men  said, 
No  matter  what  she  was ;  living  or  dead, 
Faithful  or  not,  he  loved  her  all  the  same. 
The  story  was  as  old  as  human  shame, 
But  ever  since  that  lonely  night  she  fled, 
With  books  to  blind  him,  he  had  only  read 
The  story  of  the  ashes  and  the  flame. 

There  she  was  always  coming  pretty  soon 
To  fool  him  back,  with  penitent  scared  eyes 
That  had  in  them  the  laughter  of  the  moon 
For  baffled  lovers,  and  to  make  him  think — 
Before  she  gave  him  time  enough  to  wink — 
Her  kisses  were  the  keys  to  Paradise. 

AMARYLLIS 

ONCE,  when  I  wandered  in  the  woods  alone, 
An  old  man  tottered  up  to  me  and  said, 
"Come,  friend,  and  see  the  grave  that  I  have  made 
For  Amaryllis."    There  was  in  the  tone 
84 


THE  PITY  OF  THE  LEAVES 

Of  his  complaint  such  quaver  and  such  moan 
That  I  took  pity  on  him  and  obeyed, 
And  long  stood  looking  where  his  hands  had  laid 
An  ancient  woman,  shrunk  to  skin  and  bone. 

Far  out  beyond  the  forest  I  could  hear 
The  calling  of  loud  progress,  and  the  bold 
Incessant  scream  of  commerce  ringing  clear; 
But  though  the  trumpets  of  the  world  were  glad, 
It  made  me  lonely  and  it  made  me  sad 
To  think  that  Amaryllis  had  grown  old. 

ZOLA 

BECAUSE  he  puts  the  compromising  chart 
Of  hell  before  your  eyes,  you  are  afraid; 
Because  he  counts  the  price  that  you  have  paid 
For  innocence,  and  counts  it  from  the  start, 
You  loathe  him.     But  he  sees  the  human  heart 
Of  God  meanwhile,  and  in  His  hand  was  weighed 
Tour  squeamish  and  emasculate  crusade 
Against  the  grim  dominion  of  his  art. 

Never  until  we  conquer  the  uncouth 
Connivings  of  our  shamed  indifference 
(We  call  it  Christian  faith)  are  we  to  scan 
The  racked  and  shrieking  hideousness  of  Truth 
To  find,  in  hate's  polluted  self-defence 
Throbbing,  the  pulse,  the  divine  heart  of  man. 

THE  PITY  OF  THE  LEAVES 

VENGEFUL  across  the  cold  November  moors, 
Loud  with  ancestral  shame  there  came  the  bleak 
Sad  wind  that  shrieked,  and  answered  with  a  shriek, 
Eeverberant  through  lonely  corridors. 
85 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  old  man  heard  it;  and  he  heard,  perforce, 
Words  out  of  lips  that  were  no  more  to  speak — 
Words  of  the  past  that  shook  the  old  man's  cheek 
Like  dead,  remembered  footsteps  on  old  floors. 

And  then  there  were  the  leaves  that  plagued  him  so  I 
The  brown,  thin  leaves  that  on  the  stones  outside 
Skipped  with  a  freezing  whisper.    Now  and  then 
They  stopped,  and  stayed  there — just  to  let  him  know 
How  dead  they  were;  but  if  the  old  man  cried, 
They  fluttered  off  like  withered  souls  of  men. 

AARON  STARK 

WITHAL  a  meagre  man  was  Aaron  Stark, 

Cursed  and  unkempt,  shrewd,  shrivelled,  and  morose. 

A  miser  was  he,  with  a  miser's  nose, 

And  eyes  like  little  dollars  in  the  dark. 

His  thin,  pinched  mouth  was  nothing  but  a  mark; 

And  when  he  spoke  there  came  like  sullen  blows 

Through  scattered  fangs  a  few  snarled  words  and  close, 

As  if  a  cur  were  chary  of  its  bark. 

Glad  for  the  murmur  of  his  hard  renown, 
Year  after  year  he  shambled  through  the  town, 
A  loveless  exile  moving  with  a  staff; 
And  oftentimes  there  crept  into  his  ears 
A  sound  of  alien  pity,  touched  with  tears, — 
And  then  (and  only  then)  did  Aaron  laugh. 

THE  GARDEN 

THERE  is  a  fenceless  garden  overgrown 
With  buds  and  blossoms  and  all  sorts  of  leaves; 
And  once,  among  the  roses  and  the  sheaves, 
The  Gardener  and  I  were  there  alone. 
86 


CHARLES  CARVILLE'S  EYES 

He  led  me  to  the  plot  where  I  had  thrown 
•The  fennel  of  my  days  on  wasted  ground, 
And  in  that  riot  of  sad  weeds  I  found 
The  fruitage  of  a  life  that  was  my  own. 

My  life!    Ah,  yes,  there  was  my  life,  indeed! 
And  there  were  all  the  lives  of  humankind; 
And  they  were  like  a  book  that  I  could  read, 
Whose  every  leaf,  miraculously  signed, 
Outrolled  itself  from  Thought's  eternal  seed. 
Love-rooted  in  God's  garden  of  the  mind. 

CLIFF  KLINGENHAGEN 

CLIFF  KLINGENHAGEN  had  me  in  to  dine 
With  him  one  day;  and  after  soup  and  meat, 
And  all  the  other  things  there  were  to  eat, 
Cliff  took  two  glasses  and  filled  one  with  wine 
And  one  with  wormwood.     Then,  without  a  sign 
For  me  to  choose  at  all,  he  took  the  draught 
Of  bitterness  himself,  and  lightly  quaffed 
It  off,  and  said  the  other  one  was  mine. 

And  when  I  asked  him  what  the  deuce  he  meant 
By  doing  that,  he  only  looked  at  me 
And  smiled,  and  said  it  was  a  way  of  his. 
And  though  I  know  the  fellow,  I  have  spent 
Long  time  a-wondering  when  I  shall  be 
As  happy  as  Cliff  Klingenhagen  is. 

CHARLES  CARVILLE'S  EYES 

A  MELANCHOLY  face  Charles  Carville  had, 

But  not  so  melancholy  as  it  seemed, 

When  once  you  knew  him,  for  his  mouth  redeemed 

His  insufficient  eyes,  forever  sad: 

87 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

In  them  there  was  no  life-glimpse,  good  or  had, 
Nor  joy  nor  passion  in  them  ever  gleamed ; 
His  mouth  was  all  of  him  that  ever  beamed, 
His  eyes  were  sorry,  but  his  mouth  was  glad. 

He  never  was  a  fellow  that  said  much, 

And  half  of  what  he  did  say  was  not  heard 

By  many  of  us :  we  were  out  of  touch 

With  all  his  whims  and  all  his  theories 

Till  he  was  dead,  so  those  blank  eyes  of  his 

Might  speak  them.    Then  we  heard  them,  every  word. 


THE  DEAD  VILLAGE 

HERE  there  is  death.    But  even  here,  they  say, 
Here  where  the  dull  sun  shines  this  afternoon 
As  desolate  as  ever  the  dead  moon 
Did  glimmer  on  dead  Sardis,  men  were  gay; 
And  there  were  little  children  here  to  play, 
With  small  soft  hands  that  once  did  keep  in  tune 
The  strings  that  stretch  from  heaven,  till  too  soon 
The  change  came,  and  the  music  passed  away. 

Now  there  is  nothing  but  the  ghosts  of  things, — 

No  life,  no  love,  no  children,  and  no  men; 

And  over  the  forgotten  place  there  clings 

The  strange  and  unrememberable  light 

That  is  in  dreams.    The  music  failed,  and  then 

God  frowned,  and  shut  the  village  from  His  sight. 


TWO  SONNETS 

TWO  SONNETS 

I 

JUST  as  I  wonder  at  the  twofold  screen 
Of  twisted  innocence  that  you  would  plait 
For  eyes  that  uncourageously  await 
The  coming  of  a  kingdom  that  has  been, 
So  do  I  wonder  what  God's  love  can  mean 
To  you  that  all  so  strangely  estimate 
The  purpose  and  the  consequent  estate 
Of  one  short  shuddering  step  to  the  Unseen. 

No,  I  have  not  your  backward  faith  to  shrink 
Lone-faring  from  the  doorway  of  God's  home 
To  find  Him  in  the  names  of  buried  men ; 
Nor  your  ingenious  recreance  to  think 
We  cherish,  in  the  life  that  is  to  come, 
The  scattered  features  of  dead  friends  again. 

II 

Never  until  our  souls  are  strong  enough 
To  plunge  into  the  crater  of  the  Scheme — 
Triumphant  in  the  flash  there  to  redeem 
Love's  handsel  and  forevermore  to  slough, 
Like  cerements  at  a  played-out  masque,  the  rough 
And  reptile  skins  of  us  whereon  we  set 
The  stigma  of  scared  years — are  we  to  get 
Where  atoms  and  the  ages  are  one  stuff. 

Nor  ever  shall  we  know  the  cursed  waste 
Of  life  in  the  beneficence  divine 
Of  starlight  and  of  sunlight  and  soul-shine 
That  we  have  squandered  in  sin's  frail  distress, 
Till  we  have  drunk,  and  trembled  at  the  taste, 
The  mead  of  Thought's  prophetic  endlessness. 
89 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

THE  CLERKS 

I  DID  not  think  that  I  should  find  them  there 
When  I  came  back  again;  but  there  they  stood, 
As  in  the  days  they  dreamed  of  when  young  blood 
Was  in  their  cheeks  and  women  called  them  fair. 
Be  sure,  they  met  me  with  an  ancient  air, — 
And  yes,  there  was  a  shop-worn  brotherhood 
About  them;  but  the  men  were  just  as  good, 
And  just  as  human  as  they  ever  were. 

And  you  that  ache  so  much  to  be  sublime, 
And  you  that  feed  yourselves  with  your  descent, 
What  comes  of  all  your  visions  and  your  fears? 
Poets  and  kings  are  but  the  clerks  of  Time, 
Tiering  the  same  dull  webs  of  discontent, 
Clipping  the  same  sad  alnage  of  the  years. 


FLEMING  HELPHENSTINE 

AT  first  I  thought  there  was  a  superfine 

Persuasion  in  his  face;  but  the  free  glow 

That  filled  it  when  he  stopped  and  cried,  "Hollo  I" 

Shone  joyously,  and  so  I  let  it  shine. 

He  said  his  name  was  Fleming  Helphenstine, 

But  be  that  as  it  may; — I  only  know 

He  talked  of  this  and  that  and  So-and-So, 

And  laughed  and  chaffed  like  any  friend  of  mine. 

But  soon,  with  a  queer,  quick  frown,  he  looked  at  me, 
And  I  looked  hard  at  him;  and  there  we  gazed 
In  a  strained  way  that  made  us  cringe  and  wince: 
Then,  with  a  wordless  clogged  apology 
That  sounded  half  confused  and  half  amazed, 
He  dodged, — and  I  have  never  seen  him  since. 
90 


HORACE  TO  LEUCONOE 

THOMAS  HOOD 

THE  man  who  cloaked  his  bitterness  within 
This  winding-sheet  of  puns  and  pleasantries, 
God  never  gave  to  look  with  common  eyea 
Upon  a  world  of  anguish  and  of  sin : 
His  brother  was  the  branded  man  of  Lynn; 
And  there  are  woven  with  his  jollities 
The  nameless  and  eternal  tragedies 
That  render  hope  and  hopelessness  akin. 

We  laugh,  and  crown  him;  but  anon  we  feel 
A  still  chord  sorrow-swept, — a  weird  unrest; 
And  thin  dim  shadows  home  to  midnight  steal, 
As  if  the  very  ghost  of  mirth  were  dead — 
As  if  the  joys  of  time  to  dreams  had  fled, 
Or  sailed  away  with  Ines  to  the  West. 


HORACE  TO  LEUCONOE 

I  PRAY  you  not,  Leuconoe,  to  pore 
With  unpermitted  eyes  on  what  may  be 
Appointed  by  the  gods  for  you  and  me, 
Nor  on  Chaldean  figures  any  more. 
'T  were  infinitely  better  to  implore 
The  present  only : — whether  Jove  decree 
More  winters  yet  to  come,  or  whether  he 
Make  even  this,  whose  hard,  wave-eaten  shore 
Shatters  the  Tuscan  seas  to-day,  the  last — 
Be  wise  withal,  and  rack  your  wine,  nor  fill 
Your  bosom  with  large  hopes;  for  while  I  sing, 
The  envious  close  of  time  is  narrowing; — 
So  seize  the  day,  or  ever  it  be  past, 
And  let  the  morrow  come  for  what  it  will 
91 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

REUBEN  BRIGHT 

BECAUSE  lie  was  a  butcher  and  thereby 

Did  earn  an  honest  living  (and  did  right), 

I  would  not  have  you  think  that  Reuben  Bright 

Was  any  more  a  brute  than  you  or  I; 

For  when  they  told  him  that  his  wife  must  die, 

He  stared  at  them,  and  shook  with  grief  and  fright, 

And  cried  like  a  great  baby  half  that  night, 

And  made  the  women  cry  to  see  him  cry. 

And  after  she  was  dead,  and  he  had  paid 

The  singers  and  the  sexton  and  the  rest, 

He  packed  a  lot  of  things  that  she  had  made 

Most  mournfully  away  in  an  old  chest 

Of  hers,  and  put  some  chopped-up  cedar  boughs 

In  with  them,  and  tore  down  1*  the  slaughter-house. 


THE  ALTAR 

ALONE,  remote,  nor  witting  where  I  went, 
I  found  an  altar  builded  in  a  dream — 
A  fiery  place,  whereof  there  was  a  gleam 
So  swift,  so  searching,  and  so  eloquent 
Of  upward  promise,  that  love's  murmur,  blent 
With  sorrow's  warning,  gave  but  a  supreme 
Unending  impulse  to  that  human  stream 
Whose  flood  was  all  for  the  flame's  fury  bent. 

Alas!  I  said, — the  world  is  in  the  wrong. 

But  the  same  quenchless  fever  of  unrest 

That  thrilled  the  foremost  of  that  martyred  throng 

Thrilled  me,  and  I  awoke  .  .  .  and  was  the  same 

Bewildered  insect  plunging  for  the  flame 

That  burns,  and  must  burn  somehow  for  the  best. 


SONNET 

THE  TAVERN 

WHENEVER  I  go  by  there  nowadays 

And  look  at  the  rank  weeds  and  the  strange  grass, 

The  torn  blue  curtains  and  the  broken  glass, 

I  seem  to  be  afraid  of  the  old  place; 

And  something  stiffens  up  and  down  my  face, 

For  all  the  world  as  if  I  saw  the  ghost 

Of  old  Ham  Amory,  the  murdered  host, 

With  his  dead  eyes  turned  on  me  all  aglaze. 

The  Tavern  has  a  story,  but  no  man 
Can  tell  us  what  it  is.     We  only  know 
That  once  long  after  midnight,  years  ago, 
A  stranger  galloped  up  from  Tilbury  Town, 
Who  brushed,  and  scared,  and  all  but  overran 
That  skirt-crazed  reprobate,  John  Evereldown. 


SONNET 

OH  for  a  poet — for  a  beacon  bright 
To  rift  this  changless  glimmer  of  dead  gray; 
To  spirit  back  the  Muses,  long  astray, 
And  flush  Parnassus  with  a  newer  light; 
To  put  these  little  sonnet-men  to  flight 
Who  fashion,  in  a  shrewd  mechanic  way, 
Songs  without  souls,  that  flicker  for  a  day, 
To  vanish  in  irrevocable  night. 

What  does  it  mean,  this  barren  age  of  ours? 
Here  are  the  men,  the  women,  and  the  flowers, 
The  seasons,  and  the  sunset,  as  before. 
What  does  it  mean?    Shall  there  not  one  arise 
To  wrench  one  banner  from  the  western  skies, 
And  mark  it  with  his  name  forevennore? 
93 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

GEORGE  CRABBE 

GIVE  him  the  darkest  inch  your  shelf  allows, 
Hide  him  in  lonely  garrets,  if  you  will, — 
But  his  hard,  human  pulse  is  throbbing  still 
With  the  sure  strength  that  fearless  truth  endows. 
In  spite  of  all  fine  science  disavows, 
Of  his  plain  excellence  and  stubborn  skill 
There  yet  remains  what  fashion  cannot  kill, 
Though  years  have  thinned  the  laurel  from  his  brows. 

Whether  or  not  we  read  him,  we  can  feel 
From  time  to  time  the  vigor  of  his  name 
Against  us  like  a  finger  for  the  shame 
And  emptiness  of  what  our  souls  reveal 
In  books  that  are  as  altars  where  we  kneel 
To  consecrate  the  flicker,  not  the  flame. 


CREDO 

I  CANNOT  find  my  way :  there  is  no  star 
In  all  the  shrouded  heavens  anywhere; 
And  there  is  not  a  whisper  in  the  air 
Of  any  living  voice  but  one  so  far 
That  I  can  hear  it  only  as  a  bar 
Of  lost,  imperial  music,  played  when  fair 
And  angel  fingers  wove,  and  unaware, 
Dead  leaves  to  garlands  where  no  roses  are. 

No,  there  is  not  a  glimmer,  nor  a  call, 
For  one  that  welcomes,  welcomes  when  he  fears, 
The  black  and  awful  chaos  of  the  night ; 
For  through  it  all — above,  beyond  it  all — 
I  know  the  far-sent  message  of  the  years, 
I  feel  the  coming  glory  of  the  Light. 
94 


SONNET 

ON  THE  NIGHT  OF  A  FRIEND'S  WEDDING 

IF  ever  I  am  old,  and  all  alone, 
I  shall  have  killed  one  grief,  at  any  rate; 
For  then,  thank  God,  I  shall  not  have  to  wait 
Much  longer  for  the  sheaves  that  I  have  sown. 
The  devil  only  knows  what  I  have  done, 
But  here  I  am,  and  here  are  six  or  eight 
Good  friends,  who  most  ingenuously  prate 
About  my  songs  to  such  and  such  a  one. 

But  everything  is  all  askew  to-night, — 
As  if  the  time  were  come,  or  almost  come, 
For  their  untenanted  mirage  of  me 
To  lose  itself  and  crumble  out  of  sight, 
Like  a  tall  ship  that  floats  above  the  foam 
A  little  while,  and  then  breaks  utterly. 


SONNET 

THE  master  and  the  slave  go  hand  in  hand, 
Though  touch  be  lost.     The  poet  is  a  slave, 
And  there  be  kings  do  sorrowfully  crave 
The  joyance  that  a  scullion  may  command. 
But,  ah,  the  sonnet-slave  must  understand 
The  mission  of  his  bondage,  or  the  grave 
May  clasp  his  bones,  or  ever  he  shall  save 
The  perfect  word  that  is  the  poet's  wand. 

The  sonnet  is  a  crown,  whereof  the  rhymes 
Are  for  Thought's  purest  gold  the  jewel-stones; 
But  shapes  and  echoes  that  are  never  done 
Will  haunt  the  workshop,  as  regret  sometimes 
Will  bring  with  human  yearning  to  sad  thrones 
The  crash  of  battles  that  are  never  won. 

95 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

VERLAINE 

WHY  do  you  dig  like  long-clawed  scavengers 

To  touch  the  covered  corpse  of  him  that  fled 

The  uplands  for  the  fens,  and  rioted 

Like  a  sick  satyr  with  doom's  worshippers? 

Come !  let  the  grass  grow  there ;  and  leave  his  verse 

To  tell  the  story  of  the  life  he  led. 

Let  the  man  go :  let  the  dead  flesh  be  dead, 

And  let  the  worms  be  its  biographers. 

Song  sloughs  away  the  sin  to  find  redress 
In  art's  complete  remembrance:  nothing  clings 
For  long  but  laurel  to  the  stricken  brow 
That  felt  the  Muse's  finger;  nothing  less 
Than  hell's  fulfilment  of  the  end  of  things 
Can  blot  the  star  that  shines  on  Paris  now. 


SONNET 

WHEN  we  can  all  so  excellently  give 

The  measure  of  love's  wisdom  with  a  blow, — 

Why  can  we  not  in  turn  receive  it  so, 

And  end  this  murmur  for  the  life  we  live? 

And  when  we  do  so  frantically  strive 

To  win  strange  faith,  why  do  we  shun  to  know 

That  in  love's  elemental  over-glow 

God's  wholeness  gleams  with  light  superlative? 

Oh,  brother  men,  if  you  have  eyes  at  all, 
Look  at  a  branch,  a  bird,  a  child,  a  rose, 
Or  anything  God  ever  made  that  grows, — 
Nor  let  the  smallest  vision  of  it  slip, 
Till  you  may  read,  as  on  Belshazzar's  wall, 
The  glory  of  eternal  partnership. 
96 


THE  CHORUS  OF  OLD  MEN  IN 


SUPREMACY 

THERE  is  a  drear  and  lonely  tract  of  hell 
From  all  the  common  gloom  removed  afar: 
A  flat,  sad  land  it  is,  where  shadows  are, 
Whose  lorn  estate  my  verse  may  never  tell. 
I  walked  among  them  and  I  knew  them  well: 
Men  I  had  slandered  on  life's  little  star 
For  churls  and  sluggards;  and  I  knew  the  scar 
Upon  their  brows  of  woe  ineffable. 

But  as  I  went  majestic  on  my  way, 
Into  the  dark  they  vanished,  one  by  one, 
Till,  with  a  shaft  of  God's  eternal  day, 
The  dream  of  all  my  glory  was  undone,  — 
And,  with  a  fool's  importunate  dismay, 
I  heard  the  dead  men  singing  in  the  sun. 


THE  CHORUS  OF  OLD  MEN  IN  "^EGEUS" 

YE  gods  that  have  a  home  beyond  the  world, 

Ye  that  have  eyes  for  all  man's  agony, 

Ye  that  have  seen  this  woe  that  we  have  seen, — 

Look  with  a  just  regard, 

And  with  an  even  grace, 

Here  on  the  shattered  corpse  of  a  shattered  king, 

Here  on  a  suffering  world  where  men  grow  old 

And  wander  like  sad  shadows  till,  at  last, 

Out  of  the  flare  of  life, 

Out  of  the  whirl  of  years, 

Into  the  mist  they  go, 

Into  the  mist  of  death. 

97 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

O  shades  of  you  that  loved  him  long  before 

The  cruel  threads  of  that  black  sail  were  spun, 

May  loyal  arms  and  ancient  welcomings 

Receive  him  once  again 

Who  now  no  longer  moves 

Here  in  this  flickering  dance  of  changing  days, 

Where  a  battle  is  lost  and  won  for  a  withered  wreath, 

And  the  black  master  Death  is  over  all 

To  chill  with  his  approach, 

To  level  with  his  touch, 

The  reigning  strength  of  youth, 

The  fluttered  heart  of  age. 

Woe  for  the  fateful  day  when  Delphi's  word  was  lost — 

Woe  for  the  loveless  prince  of  ^Ethra's  line! 

Woe  for  a  father's  tears  and  the  curse  of  a  king's  release — 

Woe  for  the  wings  of  pride  and  the  shafts  of  doom! 

And  thou,  the  saddest  wind 

That  ever  blew  from  Crete, 

Sing  the  fell  tidings  back  to  that  thrice  unhappy  ship! — 

Sing  to  the  western  flame, 

Sing  to  the  dying  foam. 

A  dirge  for  the  sundered  years  and  a  dirge  for  the  years  to  be! 

Better  his  end  had  been  as  the  end  of  a  cloudless  day, 
Bright,  by  the  word  of  Zeus,  with  a  golden  star, 
Wrought  of  a  golden  fame,  and  flung  to  the  central  sky, 
To  gleam  on  a  stormless  tomb  for  evermore : — 
Whether  or  not  there  fell 
To  the  touch  of  an  alien  hand 

The  sheen  of  his  purple  robe  and  the  shine  of  his  diadem, 
Better  his  end  had  been 
To  die  as  an  old  man  dies, — 

But  the  fates  are  ever  the  fates,  and  a  crown  is  ever  a  crown. 

98 


THE  WILDERNESS 

THE  WILDERNESS 

COME  away !  come  away !  there's  a  frost  along  the  marshes, 
And  a  frozen  wind  that  skims  the  shoal  where  it  shakes  the 

dead  black  water; 
There's  a  moan  across  the  lowland  and  a  wailing  through  the 

woodland 
Of  a  dirge  that  sings  to  send  us  back  to  the  arms  of  those  that 

love  us. 
There  is  nothing  left  but  ashes  now  where  the  crimson  chills  of 

autumn 

Put  off  the  summer's  languor  with  a  touch  that  made  us  glad 
For  the  glory  that  is  gone  from  us,  with  a  flight  we  cannot 

follow, 
To  the  slopes  of  other  valleys  and  the  sounds  of  other  shores. 

Come  away!  come  away!  you  can  hear  them  calling,  calling, 
Calling  us  to  come  to  them,  and  roam  no  more. 
Over  there  beyond  the  ridges  and  the  land  that  lies  between  us, 
There's  an  old  song  calling  us  to  come! 

Come  away !  come  away ! — for  the  scenes  we  leave  behind  us 
Are  barren  for  the  lights  of  home  and  a  flame  that's  young 

forever ; 

And  the  lonely  trees  around  us  creak  the  warning  of  the  night- 
wind, 
That  love  and   all  the  dreams  of  love   are   away  beyond  the 

mountains. 
The  songs  that  call  for  us  to-night,  they  have  called  for  men 

before  us, 
And  the  winds  that  blow  the  message,  they  have  blown  ten 

thousand  years; 
But  this  will  end  our  wander-time,  for  we  know  the  joy  that 

waits  us 
In  the  strangeness   of  home-coming,   and  a  woman's  waiting 

eyes. 

99 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Come  away!  come  away!  there  is  nothing  now  to  cheer  us — 

Nothing  now  to  comfort  us,  but  love's  road  home: — 

Over  there  beyond  the  darkness  there's  a  window  gleams  to 

greet  us, 
And  a  warm  hearth  waits  for  us  within. 

Come  away!  come  away! — or  the  roving-fiend  will  hold  us, 
And  make  us  all  to  dwell  with  him  to  the  end  of  human  faring : 
There  are  no  men  yet  may  leave  him  when  his  hands   are 

clutched  upon  them, 
There  are  none  will  own  his  enmity,  there  are  none  will  call  him 

brother. 

So  we'll  be  up  and  on  the  way,  and  the  less  we  boast  the  better 
For  the  freedom  that  God  gave  us  and  the  dread  we  do  not 

know : — 
The   frost  that  skips   the   willow-leaf   will   again  be  back  to 

blight  it, 
And  the  doom  we  cannot  fly  from  is  the  doom  we  do  not  see. 

Come  away!  come  away!  there  are  dead  men  all  around  us — 

Frozen  men  that  mock  us  with  a  wild,  hard  laugh 

That  shrieks  and  sinks  and  whimpers  in  the  shrill  November 

rushes, 
And  the  long  fall  wind  on  the  lake. 


WE  thrill  too  strangely  at  the  master's  touch; 
We  shrink  too  sadly  from  the  larger  self 
Which  for  its  own  completeness  agitates 
And  undetermines  us ;  we  do  not  feel — 
We  dare  not  feel  it  yet — the  splendid  shame 
Of  uncreated  failure;  we  forget, 
100 


OCTAVES 

The  while  we  groan,  that  God's  accomplishment 
Is  always  and  unfailingly  at  hand. 

II 

TUMULTUOUSLY  void  of  a  clean  scheme 
Whereon  to  build,  whereof  to  formulate, 
The  legion  life  that  riots  in  mankind 
Goes  ever  plunging  upward,  up  and  down, 
Most  like  some  crazy  regiment  at  arms, 
Undisciplined  of  aught  but  Ignorance, 
And  ever  led  resourcelessly  along 
To  brainless  carnage  by  drunk  trumpeters. 

Ill 

To  me  the  groaning  of  world-worshippers 
Rings  like  a  lonely  music  played  in  hell 
By  one  with  art  enough  to  cleave  the  walls 
Of  heaven  with  his  cadence,  but  without 
The  wisdom  or  the  will  to  comprehend 
The  strangeness  of  his  own  perversity, 
And  all  without  the  courage  to  deny 
The  profit  and  the  pride  of  his  defeat. 

IT 

WHILE  we  are  drilled  in  error,  we  are  lost 
Alike  to  truth  and  usefulness.    We  think 
We  are  great  warriors  now,  and  we  can  brag 
Like  Titans;  but  the  world  is  growing  young, 
And  we,  the  fools  of  time,  are  growing  with  it:— 
We  do  not  fight  to-day,  we  only  die; 
We  are  too  proud  of  death,  and  too  ashamed 
Of  God,  to  know  enough  to  be  alive. 
101 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


THERE  is  one  battle-field  whereon  we  fall 

Triumphant  and  unconquered;  but,  alas! 

We  are  too  fleshly  fearful  of  ourselves 

To  fight  there  till  our  days  are  whirled  and  blurred 

By  sorrow,  and  the  ministering  wheels 

Of  anguish  take  us  eastward,  where  the  clouds 

Of  human  gloom  are  lost  against  the  gleam 

That  shines  on  Thought's  impenetrable  mail. 

VI 

WHEN  we  shall  hear  no  more  the  cradle-songs 
Of  ages — when  the  timeless  hymns  of  Love 
Defeat  them  and  outsound  them — we  shall  know 
The  rapture  of  that  large  release  which  all 
Right  science  comprehends ;  and  we  shall  read, 
With  unoppressed  and  unoffended  eyes, 
That  record  of  All-Soul  whereon  God  writes 
In  everlasting  runes  the  truth  of  Him. 

vn 

THE  guerdon  of  new  childhood  is  repose: — 

Once  he  has  read  the  primer  of  right  thought, 

A  man  may  claim  between  two  smithy  strokes 

Beatitude  enough  to  realize 

God's  parallel  completeness  in  the  vague 

And  incommensurable  excellence 

That  equitably  uncreates  itself 

And  makes  a  whirlwind  of  the  Universe. 

VIII 

THERE  is  no  loneliness: — no  matter  where 
We  go,  nor  whence  we  come,  nor  what  good  friends 
102 


OCTAVES 

Forsake  us  in  the  seeming,  we  are  all 

At  one  with  a  complete  companionship; 

And  though  forlornly  joyless  be  the  ways 

We  travel,  the  compensate  spirit-gleams 

Of  Wisdom  shaft  the  darkness  here  and  there, 

Like  scattered  lamps  in  unfrequented  streets. 

IX 

WHEN  one  that  you  and  I  had  all  but  sworn 
To  be  the  purest  thing  God  ever  made 
Bewilders  us  until  at  last  it  seems 
An  angel  has  come  back  restigmatized, — 
Faith  wavers,  and  we  wonder  what  there  is 
On  earth  to  make  us  faithful  any  more, 
But  never  are  quite  wise  enough  to  know 
The  wisdom  that  is  in  that  wonderment. 


WHERE  does  a  dead  man  go  ? — The  dead  man  dies ; 
But  the  free  life  that  would  no  longer  feed 
On  fagots  of  outburned  and  shattered  flesh 
Wakes  to  a  thrilled  invisible  advance, 
Unchained  (or  fettered  else)  of  memory; 
And  when  the  dead  man  goes  it  seems  to  me 
'T  were  better  for  us  all  to  do  away 
With  weeping,  and  be  glad  that  he  is  gone. 

XI 

STILL  through  the  dusk  of  dead,  blank-legended, 
And  unremunerative  years  we  search 
To  get  where  life  begins,  and  still  we  groan 
Because  we  do  not  find  the  living  spark 
103 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Where  no  spark  ever  was;  and  thus  we  die, 
Still  searching,  like  poor  old  astronomers 
Who  totter  off  to  bed  and  go  to  sleep, 
To  dream  of  untriangulated  stars. 

xn 

WITH  conscious  eyes  not  yet  sincere  enough 
To  pierce  the  glimmered  cloud  that  fluctuates 
Between  me  and  the  glorifying  light 
That  screens  itself  with  knowledge,  I  discern 
The  searching  rays  of  wisdom  that  reach  through 
The  mist  of  shame's  infirm  credulity, 
And  infinitely  wonder  if  hard  words 
Like  mine  have  any  message  for  the  dead. 

XILT 

I  GRANT  you  friendship  is  a  royal  thing, 

But  none  shall  ever  know  that  royalty 

For  what  it  is  till  he  has  realized 

His  best  friend  in  himself.    'T  is  then,  perforce, 

That  man's  unfettered  faith  indemnifies 

Of  its  own  conscious  freedom  the  old  shame, 

And  love's  revealed  infinitude  supplants 

Of  its  own  wealth  and  wisdom  the  old  scorn. 

xrv 

THOUGH  the  sick  beast  infect  us,  we  are  fraught 
Forever  with  indissoluble  Truth, 
Wherein  redress  reveals  itself  divine, 
Transitional,  transcendent.     Grief  and  loss, 
Disease  and  desolation,  are  the  dreams 
Of  wasted  excellence;  and  every  dream 
104 


OCTAVES 

Has  in  it  something  of  an  ageless  fact 
That  flouts  deformity  and  laughs  at  years. 

XV 

WE  lack  the  courage  to  he  where  we  are: — 
We  love  too  much  to  travel  on  old  roads, 
To  triumph  on  old  fields;  we  love  too  much 
To  consecrate  the  magic  of  dead  things, 
And  yieldingly  to  linger  by  long  walls 
Of  ruin,  where  the  ruinous  moonlight 
That  sheds  a  lying  glory  on  old  stones 
Befriends  us  with  a  wizard's  enmity. 

XVI 

SOMETHING  as  one  with  eyes  that  look  below 
The  battle-smoke  to  glimpse  the  foeman's  charge, 
We  through  the  dust  of  downward  years  may  scan 
The  onslaught  that  awaits  this  idiot  world 
Where  blood  pays  blood  for  nothing,  and  where  life 
Pays  life  to  madness,  till  at  last  the  ports 
Of  gilded  helplessness  be  battered  through 
By  the  still  crash  of  salvatory  steel. 

XVII 

To  you  that  sit  with  Sorrow  like  chained  slaves, 
And  wonder  if  the  night  will  ever  come, 
I  would  say  this :     The  night  will  never  come, 
And  sorrow  is  not  always.     But  my  words 
Are  not  enough;  your  eyes  are  not  enough; 
The  soul  itself  must  insulate  the  Real, 
Or  ever  you  do  cherish  in  this  life — 
In  this  life  or  in  any  life — repose. 
105 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

xvin 

LIKE  a  white  wall  whereon  forever  breaks 
Unsatisfied  the  tumult  of  green  seas, 
Man's  unconjectured  godliness  rebukes 
With  its  imperial  silence  the  lost  waves 
Of  insufficient  grief.     This  mortal  surge 
That  beats  against  us  now  is  nothing  else 
Than  plangent  ignorance.     Truth  neither  shakes 
Nor  wavers;  but  the  world  shakes,  and  we  shriek. 

XIX 

NOR  jewelled  phrase  nor  mere  mellifluous  rhyme 
Reverberates  aright,  or  ever  shall, 
One  cadence  of  that  infinite  plain-song 
Which  is  itself  all  music.     Stronger  notes 
Than  any  that  have  ever  touched  the  world 
Must  ring  to  tell  it — ring  like  hammer-blows, 
Right-echoed  of  a  chime  primordial, 
On  anvils,  in  the  gleaming  of  God's  forge. 

XX 

THE  prophet  of  dead  words  defeats  himself: 
Whoever  would  acknowledge  and  include 
The  foregleam  and  the  glory  of  the  real, 
Must  work  with  something  else  than  pen  and  ink 
And  painful  preparation:  he  must  work 
With  unseen  implements  that  have  no  names, 
And  he  must  win  withal,  to  do  that  work, 
Good  fortitude,  clean  wisdom,  and  strong  skill. 

XXI 

To  curse  the  chilled  insistence  of  the  dawn 
Because  the  free  gleam  lingers;  to  defraud 
106 


TWO  QUATRAINS 

The  constant  opportunity  that  lives 
Unchallenged  in  all  sorrow;  to  forget 
For  this  large  prodigality  of  gold 
That  larger  generosity  of  thought, — 
These  are  the  fleshly  clogs  of  human  greed, 
The  fundamental  blunders  of  mankind. 

XXII 

FOREBODINGS  are  the  fiends  of  Recreance; 

The  master  of  the  moment,  the  clean  seer 

Of  ages,  too  securely  scans  what  is, 

Ever  to  be  appalled  at  what  is  not; 

He  sees  beyond  the  groaning  borough  lines 

Of  Hell,  God's  highways  gleaming,  and  he  knows 

That  Love's  complete  communion  is  the  end 

Of  anguish  to  the  liberated  man. 

XXIII 

HERE  by  the  windy  docks  I  stand  alone, 
But  yet  companioned.     There  the  vessel  goes, 
And  there  my  friend  goes  with  it;  but  the  wake 
That  melts  and  ebbs  between  that  friend  and  me 
Love's  earnest  is  of  Life's  all-purposeful 
And  all-triumphant  sailing,  when  the  ships 
Of  Wisdom  loose  their  fretful  chains  and  swing 
Forever  from  the  crumbled  wharves  of  Time. 


TWO  QUATRAINS 

I 

As  eons  of  incalculable  strife 
Are  in  the  vision  of  one  moment  caught, 
So  are  the  common,  concrete  things  of  life 
Divinely  shadowed  on  the  walls  of  Thought. 
107 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

II 

WE  shriek  to  live,  but  no  man  ever  lives 
Till  he  has  rid  the  ghost  of  human  breath; 
We  dream  to  die,  but  no  man  ever  dies 
Till  he  has  quit  the  road  that  runs  to  death. 

THE  TORRENT 

I  FOUND  a  torrent  falling  in  a  glen 

Where  the  sun's  light  shone  silvered  and  leaf -split; 

The  boom,  the  foam,  and  the  mad  flash  of  it 

All  made  a  magic  symphony;  but  when 

I  thought  upon  the  coming  of  hard  men 

To  cut  those  patriarchal  trees  away, 

And  turn  to  gold  the  silver  of  that  spray, 

I  shuddered.    Yet  a  gladness  now  and  then 

Did  wake  me  to  myself  till  I  was  glad 

In  earnest,  and  was  welcoming  the  time 

For  screaming  saws  to  sound  above  the  chime 

Of  idle  waters,  and  for  me  to  know 

The  jealous  visionings  that  I  had  had 

Were  steps  to  the  great  place  where  trees  and  torrents  go. 

L'ENVOI 

Now  in  a  thought,  now  in  a  shadowed  word, 
Now  in  a  voice  that  thrills  eternity, 
Ever  there  comes  an  onward  phrase  to  me 
Of  some  transcendent  music  I  have  heard; 
No  piteous  thing  by  soft  hands  dulcimered, 
No  trumpet  crash  of  blood-sick  victory, 
But  a  glad  strain  of  some  vast  harmony 
That  no  brief  mortal  touch  has  ever  stirred. 
108 


L'ENVOI 

There  is  no  music  in  the  world  like  this, 
No  character  wherewith  to  set  it  do\vn, 
No  kind  of  instrument  to  make  it  sing. 
No  kind  of  instrument?     Ah,  yes,  there  is; 
And  after  time  and  place  are  overthrown, 
God's  touch  will  keep  its  one  chord  quivering. 


109 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG,  ETC. 

(1902) 

To  the  Memory  of 
John  Hays  Gardiner 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 


I  DOUBT  if  ten  men  in  all  Tilbury  Town 
Had  ever  shaken  hands  with  Captain  Craig, 
Or  called  him  by  his  name,  or  looked  at  him 
So  curiously,  or  so  concernedly, 
As  they  had  looked  at  ashes;  but  a  few — 
Say  five  or  six  of  us — had  found  somehow 
The  spark  in  him,  and  we  had  fanned  it  there, 
Choked  under,  like  a  jest  in  Holy  Writ, 
By  Tilbury  prudence.    He  had  lived  his  life 
And  in  his  way  had  shared,  with  all  mankind, 
Inveterate  leave  to  fashion  of  himself, 
By  some  resplendent  metamorphosis, 
Whatever  he  was  not.    And  after  time, 
When  it  had  come  sufficiently  to  pass 
That  he  was  going  patch-clad  through  the  streets, 
Weak,  dizzy,  chilled,  and  half  starved,  he  had  laid 
Some  nerveless  fingers  on  a  prudent  sleeve, 
And  told  the  sleeve,  in  furtive  confidence, 
Just  how  it  was :    "My  name  is  Captain  Craig," 
He  said,  "and  I  must  eat."    The  sleeve  moved  on, 
And  after  it  moved  others — one  or  two ; 
For  Captain  Craig,  before  the  day  was  done, 
Got  back  to  the  scant  refuge  of  his  bed 
And  shivered  into  it  without  a  curse — 
Without  a  murmur  even.    He  was  cold, 
113 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  old,  and  hungry ;  but  the  worst  of  it 

Was  a  forlorn  familiar  consciousness 

That  he  had  failed  again.    There  was  a  time 

When  he  had  fancied,  if  worst  came  to  worst, 

And  he  could  do  no  more,  that  he  might  ask 

Of  whom  he  would.    But  once  had  been  enough, 

And  soon  there  would  be  nothing  more  to  ask. 

He  was  himself,  and  he  had  lost  the  speed 

He  started  with,  and  he  was  left  behind. 

There  was  no  mystery,  no  tragedy; 

And  if  they  found  him  lying  on  his  back 

Stone  dead  there  some  sharp  morning,  as  they  might,- 

Well,  once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man — 

Es  war  einmal  ein  Konig,  if  it  pleased  him. 

And  he  was  right:  there  were  no  men  to  blame: 

There  was  just  a  false  note  in  the  Tilbury  tune — 

A  note  that  able-bodied  men  might  sound 

Hosannas  on  while  Captain  Craig  lay  quiet. 

They  might  have  made  him  sing  by  feeding  him 

Till  he  should  march  again,  but  probably 

Such  yielding  would  have  jeopardized  the  rhythm; 

They  found  it  more  melodious  to  shout 

Eight  on,  with  unmolested  adoration, 

To  keep  the  tune  as  it  had  always  been, 

To  trust  in  God,  and  let  the  Captain  starve. 


He  must  have  understood  that  afterwards — 
When  we  had  laid  some  fuel  to  the  spark 
Of  him,  and  oxidized  it — for  he  laughed 
Out  loud  and  long  at  us  to  feel  it  burn, 
And  then,  for  gratitude,  made  game  of  us: 
<fYou  are  the  resurrection  and  the  life," 
He  said,  "and  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings; 
O  Fuscus!  and  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving." 
114 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

We  were  not  quite  accoutred  for  a  blast 
Of  any  lettered  nonchalance  like  that, 
And  some  of  us — the  five  or  six  of  us 
Who  found  him  out — were  singularly  struck. 
But  soon  there  came  assurance  of  his  lips, 
Like  phrases  out  of  some  sweet  instrument 
Man's  hand  had  never  fitted,  that  he  felt 
"No  penitential  shame  for  what  had  come, 
No  virtuous  regret  for  what  had  been, — 
But  rather  a  joy  to  find  it  in  his  life 
To  be  an  outcast  usher  of  the  soul 
For  such  as  had  good  courage  of  the  Sun 
To  pattern  Love."    The  Captain  had  one  chair; 
And  on  the  bottom  of  it,  like  a  king, 
For  longer  time  than  I  dare  chronicle, 
Sat  with  an  ancient  ease  and  eulogized 
His  opportunity.     My  friends  got  out, 
Like  brokers  out  of  Arcady;  but  I — 
May  be  for  fascination  of  the  thing, 
Or  may  be  for  the  larger  humor  of  it — 
Stayed  listening,  unwearied  and  unstung. 
When  they  were  gone  the  Captain's  tuneful  ooze 
Of  rhetoric  took  on  a  change;  he  smiled 
At  me  and  then  continued,  earnestly: 
"Your  friends  have  had  enough  of  it;  but  you, 
For  a  motive  hardly  vindicated  yet 
By  prudence  or  by  conscience,  have  remained; 
And  that  is  very  good,  for  I  have  things 
To  tell  you :  things  that  are  not  words  alone — 
Which  are  the  ghosts  of  things — but  something  firmer. 
"First,  would  I  have  you  know,  for  every  gift 
Or  sacrifice,  there  are — or  there  may  be — 
Two  kinds  of  gratitude :  the  sudden  kind 
We  feel  for  what  we  take,  the  larger  kind 
We  feel  for  what  we  give.    Once  we  have  learned 
115 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

As  much  as  this,  we  know  the  truth  has  been 

Told  over  to  the  world  a  thousand  times; — 

But  we  have  had  no  ears  to  listen  yet 

For  more  than  fragments  of  it:  we  have  heard 

A  murmur  now  and  then,  an  echo  here 

And  there,  and  we  have  made  great  music  of  it; 

And  we  have  made  innumerable  books 

To  please  the  Unknown  God.     Time  throws  away 

Dead  thousands  of  them,  but  the  God  that  knows 

No  death  denies  not  one :  the  books  all  count, 

The  songs  all  count;  and  yet  God's  music  has 

No  modes,  his  language  has  no  adjectives." 

"You  may  be  right,  you  may  be  wrong,"  said  I ; 
"But  what  has  this  that  you  are  saying  now — 
This  nineteenth-century  Nirvana-talk — 
To  do  with  you  and  me?"    The  Captain  raised 
His  hand  and  held  it  westward,  where  a  patched 
And  unwashed  attic-window  filtered  in 
What  barren  light  could  reach  us,  and  then  said, 
With  a  suave,  complacent  resonance :    "There  shines 
The  sun.    Behold  it.    We  go  round  and  round, 
And  wisdom  comes  to  us  with  every  whirl 
We  count  throughout  the  circuit.    We  may  say 
The  child  is  born,  the  boy  becomes  a  man, 
The  man  does  this  and  that,  and  the  man  goes, — 
But  having  said  it  we  have  not  said  much, 
Not  very  much.    Do  I  fancy,  or  you  think, 
That  it  will  be  the  end  of  anything 
When  I  am  gone  ?    There  was  a  soldier  once 
Who  fought  one  fight  and  in  that  fight  fell  dead. 
Sad  friends  went  after,  and  they  brought  him  home 
And  had  a  brass  band  at  his  funeral, 
As  you  should  have  at  mine;  and  after  that 
A  few  remembered  him.    But  he  was  dead, 
116 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

They  said,  and  they  should  have  their  friend  no  more. 

However,  there  was  once  a  starveling  child — 

A  ragged-vested  little  incubus, 

Born  to  be  cuffed  and  frighted  out  of  all 

Capacity  for  childhood's  happiness — 

Who  started  out  one  day,  quite  suddenly, 

To  drown  himself.    He  ran  away  from  home, 

Across  the  clover-fields  and  through  the  woods, 

And  waited  on  a  rock  above  a  stream, 

Just  like  a  kingfisher.     He  might  have  dived, 

Or  jumped,  or  he  might  not ;  but  anyhow, 

There  came  along  a  man  who  looked  at  him 

With  such  an  unexpected  friendliness, 

And  talked  with  him  in  such  a  common  way, 

That  life  grew  marvelously  different: 

What  he  had  lately  known  for  sullen  trunks 

And  branches,  and  a  world  of  tedious  leaves, 

Was  all  transmuted;  a  faint  forest  wind 

That  once  had  made  the  loneliest  of  all 

Sad  sounds  on  earth,  made  now  the  rarest  music; 

And  water  that  had  called  him  once  to  death 

Now  seemed  a  flowing  glory.     And  that  man, 

Born  to  go  down  a  soldier,  did  this  thing. 

Not  much  to  do  ?    Not  very  much,  I  grant  you : 

Good  occupation  for  a  sonneteer, 

Or  for  a  clown,  or  for  a  clergyman, 

But  small  work  for  a  soldier.     By  the  way, 

When  you  are  weary  sometimes  of  your  own 

Utility,  I  wonder  if  you  find 

Occasional  great  comfort  pondering 

What  power  a  man  has  in  him  to  put  forth? 

'Of  all  the  many  marvelous  things  that  are, 

Nothing  is  there  more  marvelous  than  man/ 

Said  Sophocles ;  and  he  lived  long  ago ; 

'And  earth,  unending  ancient  of  the  gods 

117 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  furrows ;  and  the  ploughs  go  back  and  forth, 
Turning  the  broken  mould,  year  after  year.'  .  .  . 

'1  turned  a  little  furrow  of  my  own 
Once  on  a  time,  and  everybody  laughed — 
As  I  laughed  afterwards;  and  I  doubt  not 
The  First  Intelligence,  which  we  have  drawn 
In  our  competitive  humility 
As  if  it  went  forever  on  two  legs, 
Had  some  diversion  of  it:  I  believe 
God's  humor  is  the  music  of  the  spheres — 
But  even  as  we  draft  omnipotence 
Itself  to  our  own  image,  we  pervert 
The  courage  of  an  infinite  ideal 
To  finite  resignation.    You  have  made 
The  cement  of  your  churches  out  of  tears 
And  ashes,  and  the  fabric  will  not  stand: 
The  shifted  walls  that  you  have  coaxed  and  shored 
So  long  with  unavailing  compromise 
Will  crumble  down  to  dust  and  blow  away, 
And  younger  dust  will  follow  after  them; 
Though  not  the  faintest  or  the  farthest  whirled 
First  atom  of  the  least  that  ever  flew 
Shall  be  by  man  defrauded  of  the  touch 
God  thrilled  it  with  to  make  a  dream  for  man 
When  Science  was  unborn.    And  after  time, 
When  we  have  earned  our  spiritual  ears, 
And  art's  commiseration  of  the  truth 
No  longer  glorifies  the  singing  beast, 
Or  venerates  the  clinquant  charlatan, — 
Then  shall  at  last  come  ringing  through  the  sun, 
Through  time,  through  flesh,  a  music  that  is  true. 
For  wisdom  is  that  music,  and  all  joy 
That  wisdom : — you  may  counterfeit,  you  think, 
The  burden  of  it  in  a  thousand  ways ; 
118 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

But  as  the  bitterness  that  loads  your  tears 
Makes  Dead  Sea  swimming  easy,  so  the  gloom, 
The  penance,  and  the  woeful  pride  you  keep, 
Make  bitterness  your  buoyance  of  the  world. 
And  at  the  fairest  and  the  frenziedest 
Alike  of  your  God-fearing  festivals, 
You  so  compound  the  truth  to  pamper  fear 
That  in  the  doubtful  surfeit  of  your  faith 
You  clamor  for  the  food  that  shadows  eat. 
You  call  it  rapture  or  deliverance, — 
Passion  or  exaltation,  or  what  most 
The  moment  needs,  but  your  faint-heartedness 
Lives  in  it  yet:  you  quiver  and  you  clutch 
For  something  larger,  something  unfulfilled, 
Some  wiser  kind  of  joy  that  you  shall  have 
Never,  until  you  learn  to  laugh  with  God." 
And  with  a  calm  Socratic  patronage, 
At  once  half  sombre  and  half  humorous, 
The  Captain  reverently  twirled  his  thumbs 
And  fixed  his  eyes  on  something  far  away; 
Then,  with  a  gradual  gaze,  conclusive,  shrewd, 
And  at  the  moment  unendurable 
For  sheer  beneficence,  he  looked  at  me. 

<rBut  the  brass  band  ?"  I  said,  not  quite  at  ease 
With  altruism  yet. — He  made  a  sort 
Of  reminiscent  little  inward  noise, 
Midway  between  a  chuckle  and  a  laugh, 
And  that  was  all  his  answer:  not  a  word 
Of  explanation  or  suggestion  came 
From  those  tight-smiling  lips.    And  when  I  left, 
I  wondered,  as  I  trod  the  creaking  snow 
And  had  the  world-wide  air  to  breathe  again, — 
Though  I  had  seen  the  tremor  of  his  mouth 
And  honored  the  endurance  of  his  hand — 
119 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Whether  or  not,  securely  closeted 

Up  there  in  the  stived  haven  of  his  den, 

The  man  sat  laughing  at  me;  and  I  felt 

My  teeth  grind  hard  together  with  a  quaint 

Revulsion — as  I  recognize  it  now — 

Not  only  for  my  Captain,  but  as  well 

For  every  smug-faced  failure  on  God's  earth; 

Albeit  I  could  swear,  at  the  same  time, 

That  there  were  tears  in  the  old  fellow's  eyes. 

I  question  if  in  tremors  or  in  tears 

There  be  more  guidance  to  man's  worthiness 

Than — well,  say  in  his  prayers.     But  oftentimes 

It  humors  us  to  think  that  we  possess 

By  some  divine  adjustment  of  our  own 

Particular  shrewd  cells,  or  something  else, 

What  others,  for  untutored  sympathy, 

Go  spirit-fishing  more  than  half  their  lives 

To  catch — like  cheerful  sinners  to  catch  faith; 

And  I  have  not  a  doubt  but  I  assumed 

Some  egotistic  attribute  like  this 

When,  cautiously,  next, morning  I  reduced 

The  fretful  qualms  of  my  novitiate, 

For  most  part,  to  an  undigested  pride. 

Only,  I  live  convinced  that  I  regret 

This  enterprise  no  more  than  I  regret 

My  life;  and  I  am  glad  that  I  was  born. 


That  evening,  at  "The  Chrysalis,"  I  found 
The  faces  of  my  comrades  all  suffused 
With  what  I  chose  then  to  denominate 
Superfluous  good  feeling.    In  return, 
They  loaded  me  with  titles  of  odd  form 
And  unexemplified  significance, 
Like  "Bellows-mender  to  Prince  ^Eolus," 
120 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

"Pipe-filler  to  the  Hoboscholiast," 

"Bread-fruit  for  the  Non-Doing,"  with  one  more 

That  I  remember,  and  a  dozen  more 

That  I  forget.    I  may  have  been  disturbed, 

I  do  not  say  that  I  was  not  annoyed, 

But  something  of  the  same  serenity 

That  fortified  me  later  made  me  feel 

For  their  skin-pricking  arrows  not  so  much 

Of  pain  as  of  a  vigorous  defect 

In  this  world's  archery.    I  might  have  tried, 

With  a  flat  facetiousness,  to  demonstrate 

What  they  had  only  snapped  at  and  thereby 

Made  out  of  my  best  evidence  no  more 

Than  comfortable  food  for  their  conceit; 

But  patient  wisdom  frowned  on  argument, 

With  a  side  nod  for  silence,  and  I  smoked 

A  series  of  incurable  dry  pipes 

While  Morgan  fiddled,  with  obnoxious  care, 

Things  that  I  wished  he  wouldn't.     Killigrew, 

Drowsed  with  a  fond  abstraction,  like  an  ass, 

Lay  blinking  at  me  while  he  grinned  and  made 

Remarks.     The  learned  Plunket  made  remarks. 

It  may  have  been  for  smoke  that  I  cursed  cats 
That  night,  but  I  have  rather  to  believe 
As  I  lay  turning,  twisting,  listening, 
And  wondering,  between  great  sleepless  yawns, 
What  possible  satisfaction  those  dead  leaves 
Could  find  in  sending  shadows  to  my  room 
And  swinging  them  like  black  rags  on  a  line, 
That  I,  with  a  forlorn  clear-headedness 
Was  ekeing  out  probation.    I  had  sinned 
In  fearing  to  believe  what  I  believed, 
And  I  was  paying  for  it. — Whimsical, 
You  think, — factitious;  but  "there  is  no  luck, 
121 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

No  fate,  no  fortune  for  us,  but  the  old 

Unswerving  and  inviolable  price 

Gets  paid:  God  sells  himself  eternally, 

But  never  gives  a  crust,"  my  friend  had  said; 

And  while  I  watched  those  leaves,  and  heard  those  cats, 

And  with  half  mad  minuteness  analyzed 

The  Captain's  attitude  and  then  my  own, 

I  felt  at  length  as  one  who  throws  himself 

Down  restless  on  a  couch  when  clouds  are  dark, 

And  shuts  his  eyes  to  find,  when  he  wakes  up 

And  opens  them  again,  what  seems  at  first 

An  unfamiliar  sunlight  in  his  room 

And  in  his  life — as  if  the  child  in  him 

Had  laughed  and  let  him  see;  and  then  I  knew 

Some  prowling  superfluity  of  child 

In  me  had  found  the  child  in  Captain  Craig 

And  let  the  sunlight  reach  him.    While  I  slept, 

My  thought  reshaped  itself  to  friendly  dreams, 

And  in  the  morning  it  was  with  me  still. 

Through  March  and  shifting  April  to  the  time 
When  winter  first  becomes  a  memory 
My  friend  the  Captain — to  my  other  friend's 
Incredulous  regret  that  such  as  he 
Should  ever  get  the  talons  of  his  talk 
So  fixed  in  my  unfledged  credulity — 
Kept  up  the  peroration  of  his  life, 
Not  yielding  at  a  threshold,  nor,  I  think, 
Too  often  on  the  stairs.    He  made  me  laugh 
Sometimes,  and  then  again  he  made  me  weep 
Almost;  for  I  had  insufficiency 
Enough  in  me  to  make  me  know  the  truth 
Within  the  jest,  and  I  could  feel  it  there 
As  well  as  if  it  were  the  folded  note 
I  felt  between  my  fingers.    I  had  said 
122 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Before  that  I  should  have  to  go  away 

And  leave  him  for  the  season;  and  his  eyes 

Had  shone  with  well-becoming  interest 

At  that  intelligence.     There  was  no  mist 

In  them  that  I  remember;  but  I  marked 

An  unmistakable  self-questioning 

And  a  reticence  of  unassumed  regret. 

The  two  together  made  anxiety — 

Not  selfishness,  I  ventured.    I  should  see 

No  more  of  him  for  six  or  seven  months, 

And  I  was  there  to  tell  him  as  I  might 

What  humorous  provision  we  had  made 

For  keeping  him  locked  up  in  Tilbury  Town. 

That  finished — with  a  few  more  commonplace 

Prosaics  on  the  certified  event 

Of  my  return  to  find  him  young  again — 

I  left  him  neither  vexed,  I  thought,  with  us, 

Nor  over  much  at  odds  with  destiny. 

At  any  rate,  save  always  for  a  look 

That  I  had  seen  too  often  to  mistake 

Or  to  forget,  he  gave  no  other  sign. 

That  train  began  to  move;  and  as  it  moved, 
I  felt  a  comfortable  sudden  change 
All  over  and  inside.    Partly  it  seemed 
As  if  the  strings  of  me  had  all  at  once 
Gone  down  a  tone  or  two ;  and  even  though 
It  made  me  scowl  to  think  so  trivial 
A  touch  had  owned  the  strength  to  tighten  them, 
It  made  me  laugh  to  think  that  I  was  free. 
But  free  from  what — when  I  began  to  turn 
The  question  round — was  more  than  I  could  say: 
I  was  no  longer  vexed  with  Killigrew, 
Nor  more  was  I  possessed  with  Captain  Craig; 
But  I  was  eased  of  some  restraint,  I  thought, 
123 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Not  qualified  by  those  amenities, 

And  I  should  have  to  search  the  matter  down; 

For  I  was  young,  and  I  was  very  keen. 

So  I  began  to  smoke  a  bad  cigar 

That  Plunket,  in  his  love,  had  given  me 

The  night  before;  and  as  I  smoked  I  watched 

The  flying  mirrors  for  a  mile  or  so, 

Till  to  the  changing  glimpse,  now  sharp,  now  faint, 

They  gave  me  of  the  woodland  over  west, 

A  gleam  of  long-forgotten  strenuous  years 

Came  back,  when  we  were  Red  Men  on  the  trail, 

With  Morgan  for  the  big  chief  Wocky-Bocky; 

And  yawning  out  of  that  I  set  myself 

To  face  again  the  loud  monotonous  ride 

That  lay  before  me  like  a  vista  drawn 

Of  bag-racks  to  the  fabled  end  of  things. 

n 

YET  that  ride  had  an  end,  as  all  rides  have; 

And  the  days  coming  after  took  the  road 

That  all  days  take, — though  never  one  of  them 

Went  by  but  I  got  some  good  thought  of  it 

For  Captain  Craig.    Not  that  I  pitied  him, 

Or  nursed  a  mordant  hunger  for  his  presence; 

But  what  I  thought  (what  Killigrew  still  thinks) 

An  irremediable  cheerfulness 

Was  in  him  and  about  the  name  of  him, 

And  I  fancy  that  it  may  be  most  of  all 

For  cheer  in  them  that  I  have  saved  his  letters. 

I  like  to  think  of  him,  and  how  he  looked — 

Or  should  have  looked — in  his  renewed  estate, 

Composing  them.    They  may  be  dreariness 

Unspeakable  to  you  that  never  saw 

The  Captain;  but  to  five  or  six  of  us 

124 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Who  knew  him  they  are  not  so  bad  as  that. 
It  may  be  we  have  smiled  not  always  where 
The  text  itself  would  seem  to  indicate 
Responsive  titillation  on  our  part, — 
Yet  having  smiled  at  all  we  have  done  well, 
Knowing  that  we  have  touched  the  ghost  of  him. 
He  tells  me  that  he  thinks  of  nothing  now 
That  he  would  rather  do  than  be  himself, 
Wisely  alive.     So  let  us  heed  this  man : — 

"The  world  that  has  been  old  is  young  again, 

The  touch  that  faltered  clings;  and  this  is  May. 

So  think  of  your  decrepit  pensioner 

As  one  who  cherishes  the  living  light, 

Forgetful  of  dead  shadows.    He  may  gloat, 

And  he  may  not  have  power  in  his  arms 

To  make  the  young  world  move;  but  he  has  eyes 

And  ears,  and  he  can  read  the  sun.     Therefore 

Think  first  of  him  as  one  who  vegetates 

In  tune  with  all  the  children  who  laugh  best 

And  longest  through  the  sunshine,  though  far  off 

Their  laughter,  and  unheard;  for  't  is  the  child, 

0  friend,  that  with  his  laugh  redeems  the  man. 

Time  steals  the  infant,  but  the  child  he  leaves; 

And  we,  we  fighters  over  of  old  wars — 

We  men,  we  shearers  of  the  Golden  Fleece — 

Were  brutes  without  him, — brutes  to  tear  the  scars 

Of  one  another's  wounds  and  weep  in  them, 

And  then  cry  out  on  God  that  he  should  flaunt 

For  life  such  anguish  and  flesh-wretchedness. 

But  let  the  brute  go  roaring  his  own  way: 

We  do  not  need  him,  and  he  loves  us  not. 

tcl  cannot  think  of  anything  to-day 
That  I  would  rather  do  than  be  myself, 
125 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Primevally  alive,  and  have  the  sun 
Shine  into  me;  for  on  a  day  like  this, 
When  chaff-parts  of  a  man's  adversities 
Are  blown  by  quick  spring  breezes  out  of  him — 
When  even  a  flicker  of  wind  that  wakes  no  more 
Than  a  tuft  of  grass,  or  a  few  young  yellow  leaves, 
Comes  like  the  falling  of  a  prophet's  breath 
On  altar-flames  rekindled  of  crushed  embers, — 
Then  do  I  feel,  now  do  I  feel,  within  me 
No  dreariness,  no  grief,  no  discontent, 
No  twinge  of  human  envy.    But  I  beg 
That  you  forego  credentials  of  the  past 
For  these  illuminations  of  the  present, 
Or  better  still,  to  give  the  shadow  justice, 
You  let  me  tell  you  something :  I  have  yearned 
In  many  another  season  for  these  days, 
And  having  them  with  God's  own  pageantry 
To  make  me  glad  for  them, — yes,  I  have  cursed 
The  sunlight  and  the  breezes  and  the  leaves 
To  think  of  men  on  stretchers  or  on  beds, 
Or  on  foul  floors,  things  without  shapes  or  names, 
Made  human  with  paralysis  and  rags; 
Or  some  poor  devil  on  a  battle-field, 
Left  undiscovered  and  without  the  strength 
To  drag  a  maggot  from  his  clotted  mouth; 
Or  women  working  where  a  man  would  fall — 
Flat-breasted  miracles  of  cheerfulness 
Made  neuter  by  the  work  that  no  man  counts 
Until  it  waits  undone;  children  thrown  out 
To  feed  their  veins  and  souls  on  offal  .  .  .  Yes, 
I  have  had  half  a  mind  to  blow  my  brains  out 
Sometimes;  and  I  have  gone  from  door  to  door, 
Ragged  myself,  trying  to  do  something — 
Crazy,  I  hope. — But  what  has  this  to  do 
With  Spring?    Because  one  half  of  humankind 
126 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Lives  here  in  hell,  shall  not  the  other  half 
Do  any  more  than  just  for  conscience'  sake 
Be  miserable?    Is  this  the  way  for  us 
To  lead  these  creatures  up  to  find  the  light, — 
Or  to  be  drawn  down  surely  to  the  dark 
Again?    Which  is  it?    What  does  the  child  say? 


"But  let  us  not  make  riot  for  the  child 
Untaught,  nor  let  us  hold  that  we  may  read 
The  sun  but  through  the  shadows;  nor,  again, 
Be  we  forgetful  ever  that  we  keep 
The  shadows  on  their  side.     For  evidence, 
I  might  go  back  a  little  to  the  days 
When  I  had  hounds  and  credit,  and  grave  friends 
To  borrow  my  books  and  set  wet  glasses  on  them, 
And  other  friends  of  all  sorts,  grave  and  gay, 
Of  whom  one  woman  and  one  man  stand  out 
From  all  the  rest,  this  morning.     The  man  said 
One  day,  as  we  were  riding,  'Now,  you  see, 
There  goes  a  woman  cursed  with  happiness : 
Beauty  and  wealth,  health,  horses, — everything 
That  she  could  ask,  or  we  could  ask,  is  hers, 
Except  an  inward  eye  for  the  dim  fact 
Of  what  this  dark  world  is.     The  cleverness 
God  gave  her — or  the  devil — cautions  her 
That  she  must  keep  the  china  cup  of  life 
Filled  somehow,  and  she  fills  it — runs  it  over — 
Claps  her  white  hands  while  some  one  does  the  sopping 
With  fingers  made,  she  thinks,  for  just  that  purpose, 
Giggles  and  eats  and  reads  and  goes  to  church, 
Makes  pretty  little  penitential  prayers, 
And  has  an  eighteen-carat  crucifix 
Wrapped  up  in  chamois-skin.    She  gives  enough, 
You  say;  but  what  is  giving  like  hers  worth? 
127 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

What  is  a  gift  without  the  soul  to  guide  it? 

"Poor  dears,  and  they  have  cancers? — Oh!"  she  says; 

And  away  she  works  at  that  new  altar-cloth 

For  the  Keverend  Hieronymus  Mackintosh — 

Third  person,  Jerry.    "Jerry,"  she  says,  "can  say 

Such  lovely  things,  and  make  life  seem  so  sweet!" 

Jerry  can  drink,  also. — And  there  she  goes, 

Like  a  whirlwind  through  an  orchard  in  the  springtime — 

Throwing  herself  away  as  if  she  thought 

The  world  and  the  whole  planetary  circus 

Were  a  flourish  of  apple-blossoms.    Look  at  her! 

And  here  is  this  infernal  world  of  ours — 

And  hers,  if  only  she  might  find  it  out — 

Starving  and  shrieking,  sickening,  suppurating, 

Whirling  to  God  knows  where  .  .  .  But  look  at  her!' 


"And  after  that  it  came  about  somehow, 
Almost  as  if  the  Fates  were  killing  time, 
That  she,  the  spendthrift  of  a  thousand  joys, 
Eode  in  her  turn  with  me,  and  in  her  turn 
Made  observations :  'Now  there  goes  a  man,' 
She  said,  'who  feeds  his  very  soul  on  poison: 
No  matter  what  he  does,  or  where  he  looks, 
He  finds  unhappiness;  or,  if  he  fails 
To  find  it,  he  creates  it,  and  then  hugs  it : 
Pygmalion  again  for  all  the  world — 
Pygmalion  gone  wrong.    You  know  I  think 
If  when  that  precious  animal  was  young, 
His  mother,  or  some  watchful  aunt  of  his, 
Had  spanked  him  with  Pendennis  and  Don  Juan, 
And  given  him  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
Or  Cord  and  Creese,  or  almost  anything, 
There  might  have  been  a  tonic  for  him  ?    Listen : 
When  he  was  possibly  nineteen  years  old 
128 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

He  came  to  me  and  said,  "I  understand 
You  are  in  love" — yes,  that  is  what  he  said, — 
"But  never  mind,  it  won't  last  very  long; 
It  never  does;  we  all  get  over  it. 
We  have  this  clinging  nature,  for  you  see 
The  Great  Bear  shook  himself  once  on  a  time 
And  the  world  is  one  of  many  that  let  go." 
And  yet  the  creature  lives,  and  there  you  see  him- 
And  he  would  have  this  life  no  fairer  thing 
Than  a  certain  time  for  numerous  marionettes 
To  do  the  Dance  of  Death.    Give  him  a  rose, 
And  he  will  tell  you  it  is  very  sweet, 
But  only  for  a  day.     Most  wonderful! 
Show  him  a  child,  or  anything  that  laughs, 
And  he  begins  at  once  to  crunch  his  wormwood 
And  then  runs  on  with  his  "realities." 
What  does  he  know  about  realities, 
Who  sees  the  truth  of  things  almost  as  well 
As  Nero  saw  the  Northern  Lights?    Good  gracious! 
Can't  you  do  something  with  him  ?   Call  him  something- 
Call  him  a  type,  and  that  will  make  him  cry : 
One  of  those  not  at  all  unusual, 
Prophetic,  would-be-Delphic  manger-snappers 
That  always  get  replaced  when  they  are  gone; 
Or  one  of  those  impenetrable  men, 
Who  seem  to  carry  branded  on  their  foreheads, 
"We  are  abstruse,  but  not  quite  so  abstruse 
As  possibly  the  good  Lord  may  have  wished;" 
One  of  those  men  who  never  quite  confess 
That  Washington  was  great; — the  kind  of  man 
That  everybody  knows  and  always  will, — 
Shrewd,  critical,  facetious,  insincere, 
And  for  the  most  part  harmless,  I'm  afraid. 
But  even  then,  you  might  be  doing  well 
To  tell  him  something.' — And  I  said  I  would. 
129 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"So  in  one  afternoon  you  see  we  have 
The  child  in  absence — or,  to  say  the  least, 
In  ominous  defect, — and  in  excess 
Commensurate,  likewise.     Now  the  question  is, 
Not  which  was  right  and  which  was  wrong,  for  each, 
By  virtue  of  one-sidedness,  was  both; 
But  rather — to  my  mind,  as  heretofore — 
Is  it  better  to  be  blinded  by  the  lights, 
Or  by  the  shadows  ?    By  the  lights,  you  say  ? 
The  shadows  are  all  devils,  and  the  lights 
Gleam  guiding  and  eternal?     Very  good; 
But  while  you  say  so  do  not  quite  forget 
That  sunshine  has  a  devil  of  its  own, 
And  one  that  we,  for  the  great  craft  of  him, 
But  vaguely  recognize.    The  marvel  is 
That  this  persuasive  and  especial  devil, 
By  grace  of  his  extreme  transparency, 
Precludes  all  common  vision  of  him;  yet 
There  is  one  way  to  glimpse  him  and  a  way, 
As  I  believe,  to  test  him, — granted  once 
That  we  have  ousted  prejudice,  which  means 
That  we  have  made  magnanimous  advance 
Through  self-acquaintance.     Not  an  easy  thing 
For  some  of  us;  impossible,  may  be, 
For  most  of  us:  the  woman  and  the  man 
I  cited,  for  example,  would  have  wrought 
The  most  intractable  conglomerate 
Of  everything,  if  they  had  set  themselves 
To  analyze  themselves  and  not  each  other; 
If  only  for  the  sake  of  self-respect, 
They  would  have  come  to  no  place  but  the  same 
Wherefrom  they  started;  one  would  have  lived  awhile 
In  paradise  without  defending  it, 
And  one  in  hell  without  enjoying  it; 
And  each  had  been  dissuaded  neither  more 
130 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Nor  less  thereafter.     There  are  such  on  earth 

As  might  have  been  composed  primarily 

For  mortal  warning:  he  was  one  of  them, 

And  she — the  devil  makes  us  hesitate. 

'T  is  easy  to  read  words  writ  well  with  ink 

That  makes  a  good  black  mark  on  smooth  white  paper; 

But  words  are  done  sometimes  with  other  ink 

Whereof  the  smooth  white  paper  gives  no  sign 

Till  science  brings  it  out;  and  here  we  come 

To  knowledge,  and  the  way  to  test  a  devil. 

"To  most  of  us,  you  say,  and  you  say  well, 
This  demon  of  the  sunlight  is  a  stranger; 
But  if  you  break  the  sunlight  of  yourself, 
Project  it,  and  observe  the  quaint  shades  of  it, 
I  have  a  shrewd  suspicion  you  may  find 
That  even  as  a  name  lives  unrevealed 
In  ink  that  waits  an  agent,  so  it  is 
The  devil — or  this  devil — hides  himself 
To  all  the  diagnoses  we  have  made 
Save  one.    The  quest  of  him  is  hard  enough — 
As  hard  as  truth;  but  once  we  seem  to  know 
That  his  compound  obsequiousness  prevails 
TJnferreted  within  us,  we  may  find 
That  sympathy,  which  aureoles  itself 
To  superfluity  from  you  and  me, 
May  stand  against  the  soul  for  five  or  six 
Persistent  and  indubitable  streaks 
Of  irritating  brilliance,  out  of  which 
A  man  may  read,  if  he  have  knowledge  in  him, 
Proportionate  attest  of  ignorance, 
Hypocrisy,  good-heartedness,  conceit, 
Indifference, — by  which  a  man  may  learn 
That  even  courage  may  not  make  him  glad 
For  laughter  when  that  laughter  is  itself 
131 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  tribute  of  recriminating  groans. 

Nor  are  the  shapes  of  obsolescent  creeds 

Much  longer  to  flit  near  enough  to  make 

Men  glad  for  living  in  a  world  like  this; 

For  wisdom,  courage,  knowledge,  and  the  faith 

Which  has  the  soul  and  is  the  soul  of  reason — 

These  are  the  world's  achievers.    And  the  child — 

The  child  that  is  the  saviour  of  all  ages, 

The  prophet  and  the  poet,  the  crown-bearer, 

Must  yet  with  Love's  unhonored  fortitude, 

Survive  to  cherish  and  attain  for  us 

The  candor  and  the  generosity, 

By  leave  of  which  we  smile  if  we  bring  back 

The  first  revealing  flash  that  wakened  us 

When  wisdom  like  a  shaft  of  dungeon-light 

Came  searching  down  to  find  us. 

"Halfway  back 

I  made  a  mild  allusion  to  the  Fates, 
Not  knowing  then  that  ever  I  should  have 
Dream-visions  of  them,  painted  on  the  air, — 
Clotho,  Lachesis,  Atropos.     Faint-hued 
They  seem,  but  with  a  faintness  never  fading, 
Unblurred  by  gloom,  unshattered  by  the  sun, 
Still  with  eternal  color,  colorless, 
They  move  and  they  remain.    The  while  I  write 
These  very  words  I  see  them, — Atropos, 
Lachesis,  Clotho ;  and  the  last  is  laughing. 
When  Clotho  laughs,  Atropos  rattles  her  shears; 
But  Clotho  keeps  on  laughing  just  the  same. 
Some  time  when  I  have  dreamed  that  Atropos 
Has  laughed,  I'll  tell  you  how  the  colors  change — 
The  colors  that  are  changeless,  colorless." 


132 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

I  fear  I  may  have  answered  Captain  Craig's 
Epistle  Number  One  with  what  he  chose, 
Good-humoredly  but  anxiously,  to  take 
For  something  that  was  not  all  reverence; 
From  Number  Two  it  would  have  seemed  almost 
As  if  the  flanges  of  the  old  man's  faith 
Had  slipped  the  treacherous  rails  of  my  allegiance, 
Leaving  him  by  the  roadside,  humorously 
Upset,  with  nothing  more  convivial 
To  do  than  be  facetious  and  austere: — 

'If  you  decry  Don  Cesar  de  Bazan, 
There  is  an  imperfection  in  your  vitals. 
Flamboyant  and  old-fashioned?     Overdone? 
Romantico-robustious  ? — Dear  young  man, 
There  are  fifteen  thousand  ways  to  be  one-sided, 
And  I  have  indicated  two  of  them 
Already.    Now  you  bait  me  with  a  third — 
As  if  it  were  a  spider  with  nine  legs; 
But  what  it  is  that  you  would  have  me  do, 
What  fatherly  wrath  you  most  anticipate, 
I  lack  the  needed  impulse  to  discern; 
Though  I  who  shape  no  songs  of  any  sort, 
I  who  have  made  no  music,  thrilled  no  canvas, — 
I  who  have  added  nothing  to  the  world 
The  world  would  reckon  save  long-squandered  wit — 
Might  with  half-pardonable  reverence 
Beguile  my  faith,  maybe,  to  the  forlorn 
Extent  of  some  sequestered  murmuring 
Anent  the  vanities.    No  doubt  I  should, 
If  mine  were  the  one  life  that  I  have  lived; 
But  with  a  few  good  glimpses  I  have  had 
Of  heaven  through  the  little  holes  in  hell, 
I  can  half  understand  what  price  it  is 
The  poet  pays,  at  one  time  and  another, 
133 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

For  those  indemnifying  interludes 

That  are  to  be  the  kernel  in  what  lives 

To  shrine  him  when  the  new-born  men  come  singing. 

"So  do  I  comprehend  what  I  have  read 

From  even  the  squeezed  items  of  account 

Which  I  have  to  my  credit  in  that  book 

Whereof  the  leaves  are  ages  and  the  text 

Eternity.    What  do  I  care  to-day 

For  pages  that  have  nothing?    I  have  lived, 

And  I  have  died,  and  I  have  lived  again ; 

And  I  am  very  comfortable.    Yes, 

Though  I  look  back  through  barren  years  enough 

To  make  me  seem — as  I  transmute  myself 

In  downward  retrospect  from  what  I  am — 

As  unproductive  and  as  unconvinced 

Of  living  bread  and  the  soul's  eternal  draught 

As  a  frog  on  a  Passover-cake  in  a  streamless  desert,— 

Still  do  I  trust  the  light  that  I  have  earned, 

And  having  earned,  received.    You  shake  your  head, 

But  do  not  say  that  you  will  shake  it  off. 

"Meanwhile  I  have  the  flowers  and  the  grass, 
My  brothers  here  the  trees,  and  all  July 
To  make  me  joyous.    Why  do  you  shake  your  head? 
Why  do  you  laugh  ? — because  you  are  so  young  ? 
Do  you  think  if  you  laugh  hard  enough  the  truth 
Will  go  to  sleep  ?    Do  you  think  of  any  couch 
Made  soft  enough  to  put  the  truth  to  sleep? 
Do  you  think  there  are  no  proper  comedies 
But  yours  that  have  the  fashion  ?    For  example, 
Do  you  think  that  I  forget,  or  shall  forget, 
One  friendless,  fat,  fantastic  nondescript 
Who  knew  the  ways  of  laughter  on  low  roads, — 
A  vagabond,  a  drunkard,  and  a  sponge, 
134 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

But  always  a  free  creature  with  a  soul? 

I  bring  him  back,  though  not  without  misgivings, 

And  caution  you  to  damn  him  sparingly. 

"Count  Pretzel  von  Wiirzburger,  the  Obscene 
(The  beggar  may  have  had  another  name, 
But  no  man  to  my  knowledge  ever  knew  it) 
Was  a  poet  and  a  skeptic  and  a  critic, 
And  in  his  own  mad  manner  a  musician : 
He  found  an  old  piano  in  a  bar-room, 
And  it  was  his  career — three  nights  a  week, 
From  ten  o'clock  till  twelve — to  make  it  rattle; 
And  then,  when  I  was  just  far  down  enough 
To  sit  and  watch  him  with  his  long  straight  hair, 
And  pity  him,  and  think  he  looked  like  Liszt, 
I  might  have  glorified  a  musical 
Steam-engine,  or  a  xylophone.    The  Count 
Played  half  of  everything  and  'improvised' 
The  rest:  he  told  me  once  that  he  was  born 
With  a  genius  in  him  that  'prohibited 
Complete  fidelity,'  and  that  his  art 
'Confessed  vagaries,'  therefore.    But  I  made 
Kind  reckoning  of  his  vagaries  then : 
I  had  the  whole  great  pathos  of  the  man 
To  purify  me,  and  all  sorts  of  music 
To  give  me  spiritual  nourishment 
And  cerebral  athletics ;  for  the  Count 
Played  indiscriminately — with  an  f, 
And  with  incurable  presto — cradle-songs 
And  carnivals,  spring-songs  and  funeral  marches, 
The  Marseillaise  and  Schubert's  Serenade — 
And  always  in  a  way  to  make  me  think 
Procrustes  had  the  germ  of  music  in  him. 
And  when  this  interesting  reprobate 
Began  to  talk — then  there  were  more  vagaries: 
135 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  made  a  reeking  fetich  of  all  filth, 

Apparently;  but  there  was  yet  revealed 

About  him,  through  his  words  and  on  his  flesh, 

That  ostracizing  nimbus  of  a  soul's 

Abject,  apologetic  purity — 

That  phosphorescence  of  sincerity — 

Which  indicates  the  curse  and  the  salvation 

Of  a  life  wherein  starved  art  may  never  perish. 

"One  evening  I  remember  clearliest 

Of  all  that  I  passed  with  him.    Having  wrought, 

With  his  nerve-ploughing  ingenuity, 

The  Traumerei  into  a  Titan's  nightmare, 

The  man  sat  down  across  the  table  from  me 

And  all  at  once  was  ominously  decent. 

'  "The  more  we  measure  what  is  ours  to  use," ' 

He  said  then,  wiping  his  froth-plastered  mouth 

With  the  inside  of  his  hand,  '  "the  less  we  groan 

For  what  the  gods  refuse."    I've  had  that  sleeved 

A  decade  for  you.    Now  but  one  more  stein, 

And  I  shall  be  prevailed  upon  to  read 

The  only  sonnet  I  have  ever  made; 

And  after  that,  if  you  propitiate 

Gambrinus,  I  shall  play  you  that  Andante 

As  the  world  has  never  heard  it  played  before.' 

So  saying,  he  produced  a  piece  of  paper, 

Unfolded  it,  and  read,  'SONNET  UNIQUE 

DE  PRETZEL  VON  WURZBURGER,  DIT  L'OBSCENE: — 

"  'Carmichael  had  a  kind  of  joTce-disease, 
And  he  had  queer  things  fastened  on  his  wall. 
There  are  three  green  china  frogs  that  I  recall 
More  potently  than  anything,  for  these 
Three  frogs  have  demonstrated,  ly  degrees, 
What  curse  was  on  the  man  to  make  him  fall: 
136 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

"They  are  not  ordinary  frogs  at  all, 
They  are  the  Frogs  of  Aristophanes" 

"  'God!  how  he  laughed  whenever  he  said  that; 
And  how  we  caught  from  one  another's  eyes 
The  flash  of  what  a  tongue  could  never  tell! 
We  always  laughed  at  him,  no  matter  what 
The  joke  was  worth.    But  when  a  man's  brain  dies, 
We  are  not  always  glad  .  .  .  Poor  Carmichael!' 

"  'I  am  a  sowbug  and  a  necrophile,' 

Said  Pretzel,  'and  the  gods  are  growing  old; 

The  stars  are  singing  Golden  hair  to  gray, 

Green  leaf  to  yellow  leaf, — or  chlorophyl 

To  xanthophyl,  to  be  more  scientific, — 

So  speed  me  one  more  stein.    You  may  believe 

That  I'm  a  mendicant,  but  I  am  not : 

For  though  it  look  to  you  that  I  go  begging, 

The  truth  is  I  go  giving — giving  all 

My  strength  and  all  my  personality, 

My  wisdom  and  experience — all  myself, 

To  make  it  final — for  your  preservation ; 

Though  I  be  not  the  one  thing  or  the  other, 

Though  I  strike  between  the  sunset  and  the  dawn, 

Though  I  be  cliff-rubbed  wreckage  on  the  shoals 

Of  Circumstance, — doubt  not  that  I  comprise, 

Far  more  than  my  appearance.    Here  he  comes; 

Now  drink  to  good  old  Pretzel !    Drink  down  Pretzel  1 

Q'uousque  tandem,  Pretzel,  and  O  Lord, 

How  long!    But  let  regret  go  hang:  the  good 

Die  first,  and  of  the  poor  did  many  cease 

To  be.    Beethoven  after  Wordsworth.    Prosit! 

There  were  geniuses  among  the  trilobites, 

And  I  suspect  that  I  was  one  of  them.' 

137 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"How  much  of  him  was  earnest  and  how  much 

Fantastic,  I  know  not;  nor  do  I  need 

Profounder  knowledge  to  exonerate 

The  squalor  or  the  folly  of  a  man 

Than  consciousness — though  even  the  crude  laugh 

Of  indigent  Priapus  follow  it — 

That  I  get  good  of  him.    And  if  you  like  him, 

Then  some  time  in  the  future,  past  a  doubt, 

You'll  have  him  in  a  book,  make  metres  of  him, — 

To  the  great  delight  of  Mr.  Killigrew, 

And  the  grief  of  all  your  kinsmen.    Christian  shame 

And  self-confuted  Orientalism 

For  the  more  sagacious  of  them ;  vulture-tracks 

Of  my  Promethean  bile  for  the  rest  of  them ; 

And  that  will  be  a  joke.     There's  nothing  quite 

So  funny  as  a  joke  that's  lost  on  earth 

And  laughed  at  by  the  gods.    Your  devil  knows  it. 

"I  come  to  like  your  Mr.  Killigrew, 

And  I  rejoice  that  you  speak  well  of  him. 

The  sprouts  of  human  blossoming  are  in  him, 

And  useful  eyes — if  he  will  open  them; 

But  one  thing  ails  the  man.    He  smiles  too  much. 

He  comes  to  see  me  once  or  twice  a  week, 

And  I  must  tell  him  that  he  smiles  too  much. 

If  I  were  Socrates,  it  would  be  simple." 


Epistle  Number  Three  was  longer  coming. 
I  waited  for  it,  even  worried  for  it — 
Though  Killigrew,  and  of  his  own  free  will, 
Had  written  reassuring  little  scraps 
From  time  to  time,  and  I  had  valued  them 
The  more  for  being  his.    "The  Sage,"  he  said, 
138 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

"From  all  that  I  can  see,  is  doing  well — 

I  should  say  very  well.    Three  meals  a  day, 

Siestas,  and  innumerable  pipes — 

Not  to  the  tune  of  water  on  the  stones, 

But  rather  to  the  tune  of  his  own  Ego, 

Which  seems  to  be  about  the  same  as  God. 

But  I  was  always  weak  in  metaphysics, 

And  pray  therefore  that  you  be  lenient. 

I'm  going  to  be  married  in  December, 

And  I  have  made  a  poem  that  will  scan — 

So  Plunket  says.    You  said  the  other  wouldn't: 

"Augustus  Plunket,  Ph.D., 

And  oh,  the  Bishop's  daughter; 
A  very  learned  man  was  he 

And  in  twelve  weeks  he  got  her; 

And  oh,  she  was  as  fair  to  see 

As  pippins  on  the  pippin  tree  .  .  . 

Tu,  tui,  tibi,  te, — chubs  in  the  mill  water. 

"Connotative,  succinct,  and  erudite; 
Three  dots  to  boot.    Now  goodman  Killigrew 
May  wind  an  epic  one  of  these  glad  years, 
And  after  that  who  knoweth  but  the  Lord — 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  who  is  the  King  of  Glory  ?" 

Still,  when  the  Captain's  own  words  were  before  me, 
I  seemed  to  read  from  them,  or  into  them, 
The  protest  of  a  mortuary  joy 
Not  all  substantiating  Killigrew's 
Off-hand  assurance.     The  man's  face  came  back 
The  while  I  read  them,  and  that  look  again, 
Which  I  had  seen  so  often,  came  back  with  it. 
139 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

I  do  not  know  that  I  can  say  just  why, 

But  I  felt  the  feathery  touch  of  something  wrong: — 

"Since  last  I  wrote — and  I  fear  weeks  have  gone 

Too  far  for  me  to  leave  my  gratitude 

TInuttered  for  its  own  acknowledgment — 

I  have  won,  without  the  magic  of  Amphion 

Without  the  songs  of  Orpheus  or  Apollo, 

The  frank  regard — and  with  it,  if  you  like, 

The  fledged  respect — of  three  quick-footed  friends. 

('Nothing  is  there  more  marvelous  than  man,' 

Said  Sophocles ;  and  I  say  after  him : 

He  traps  and  captures,  all-inventive  one, 

The  light  birds  and  the  creatures  of  the  wold, 

And  in  his  nets  the  fishes  of  the  sea.') 

Once  they  were  pictures,  painted  on  the  air, 

Faint  with  eternal  color,  colorless, — 

But  now  they  are  not  pictures,  they  are  fowls. 

"At  first  they  stood  aloof  and  cocked  their  small, 
Smooth,  prudent  heads  at  me  and  made  as  if, 
With  a  cryptic  idiotic  melancholy, 
To  look  authoritative  and  sagacious; 
But  when  I  tossed  a  piece  of  apple  to  them, 
They  scattered  back  with  a  discord  of  short  squawks 
And  then  came  forward  with  a  craftiness 
That  made  me  think  of  Eden.    Atropos 
Came  first,  and  having  grabbed  the  morsel  up, 
Ran  flapping  far  away  and  out  of  sight, 
With  Clotho  and  Lachesis  hard  after  her; 
But  finally  the  three  fared  all  alike, 
And  next  day  I  persuaded  them  with  corn. 
In  a  week  they  came  and  had  it  from  my  fingers 
And  looked  up  at  me  while  I  pinched  their  bills 
And  made  them  sneeze.    Count  Pretzel's  Carmichael 
140 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Had  said  they  were  not  ordinary  birds 

At  all, — and  they  are  not :  they  are  the  Fates, 

Foredoomed  of  their  own  insufficiency 

To  be  assimilated. — Do  not  think, 

Because  in  my  contented  isolation 

It  suits  me  at  this  time  to  be  jocose, 

That  I  am  nailing  reason  to  the  cross, 

Or  that  I  set  the  bauble  and  the  bells 

Above  the  crucible;  for  I  do  nought, 

Say  nought,  but  with  an  ancient  levity 

That  is  the  forbear  of  all  earnestness. 

"The  cross,  I  said. — I  had  a  dream  last  night: 
A  dream  not  like  to  any  other  dream 
That  I  remember.    I  was  all  alone, 
Sitting  as  I  do  now  beneath  a  tree, 
But  looking  not,  as  I  am  looking  now, 
Against  the  sunlight.     There  was  neither  sun 
Nor  moon,  nor  do  I  think  of  any  stars ; 
Yet  there  was  light,  and  there  were  cedar  trees, 
And  there  were  sycamores.    I  lay  at  rest, 
Or  should  have  seemed  at  rest,  within  a  trough 
Between  two  giant  roots.    A  weariness 
Was  on  me,  and  I  would  have  gone  to  sleep, 
But  I  had  not  the  courage.    If  I  slept, 
I  feared  that  I  should  never  wake  again; 
And  if  I  did  not  sleep  I  should  go  mad, 
And  with  my  own  dull  tools,  which  I  had  used 
With  wretched  skill  so  long,  hack  out  my  life. 
And  while  I  lay  there,  tortured  out  of  death, 
Faint  waves  of  cold,  as  if  the  dead  were  breathing, 
Came  over  me  and  through  me;  and  I  felt 
Quick  fearful  tears  of  anguish  on  my  face 
And  in  my  throat.    But  soon,  and  in  the  distance, 
Concealed,  importunate,  there  was  a  sound 
141 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Of  coming  steps, — and  I  was  not  afraid; 

No,  I  was  not  afraid  then,  I  was  glad; 

For  I  could  feel,  with  every  thought,  the  Man, 

The  Mystery,  the  Child,  a  footfall  nearer. 

Then,  when  he  stood  before  me,  there  was  no 

Surprise,  there  was  no  questioning :  I  knew  him, 

As  I  had  known  him  always;  and  he  smiled. 

'Why  are  you  here?'  he  asked;  and  reaching  down, 

He  took  up  my  dull  blades  and  rubbed  his  thumb 

Across  the  edges  of  them  and  then  smiled 

Once  more. — 'I  was  a  carpenter,'  I  said, 

*But  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  to  do.' — 

'Nothing?'  said  he. — 'No,  nothing,'  I  replied. — 

'But  are  you  sure,'  he  asked,  'that  you  have  skill? 

And  are  you  sure  that  you  have  learned  your  trade  ? 

No,  you  are  not.' — He  looked  at  me  and  laughed 

As  he  said  that;  but  I  did  not  laugh  then, 

Although  I  might  have  laughed. — 'They  are  dull,'  said  he ; 

'They  were  not  very  sharp  if  they  were  ground; 

But  they  are  what  you  have,  and  they  will  earn 

What  you  have  not.    So  take  them  as  they  are, 

Grind  them  and  clean  them,  put  new  handles  to  them, 

And  then  go  learn  your  trade  in  Nazareth. 

Only  be  sure  that  you  find  Nazareth.' — 

'But  if  I  starve — what  then  ?'  said  I. — He  smiled. 

"Now  I  call  that  as  curious  a  dream 
As  ever  Meleager's  mother  had, — 
./Eneas,  Alcibiades,  or  Jacob. 
I'll  not  except  the  scientist  who  dreamed 
That  he  was  Adam  and  that  he  was  Eve 
At  the  same  time ;  or  yet  that  other  man 
Who  dreamed  that  he  was  ^Eschylus,  reborn 
To  clutch,  combine,  compensate,  and  adjust 
The  plunging  and  unfathomable  chorus 
142 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Wherein  we  catch,  like  a  bacchanale  through  thunder, 

The  chanting  of  the  new  Eumenides, 

Implacable,  renascent,  farcical, 

Triumphant,  and  American.     He  did  it, 

But  did  it  in  a  dream.     When  he  awoke 

One  phrase  of  it  remained ;  one  verse  of  it 

Went  singing  through  the  remnant  of  his  life 

Like  a  bag-pipe  through  a  mad-house. — He  died  young, 

And  if  I  ponder  the  small  history 

That  I  have  gleaned  of  him  by  scattered  roads, 

The  more  do  I  rejoice  that  he  died  young. 

That  measure  would  have  chased  him  all  his  days, 

Defeated  him,  deposed  him,  wasted  him, 

And  shrewdly  ruined  him — though  in  that  ruin 

There  would  have  lived,  as  always  it  has  lived, 

In  ruin  as  in  failure,  the  supreme 

Fulfilment  unexpressed,  the  rhythm  of  God 

That  beats  unheard  through  songs  of  shattered  men 

Who  dream  but  cannot  sound  it. — He  declined, 

From  all  that  I  have  ever  learned  of  him, 

With  absolute  good-humor.     No  complaint, 

No  groaning  at  the  burden  which  is  light, 

No  brain-waste  of  impatience — 'Never  mind,' 

He  whispered,  'for  I  might  have  written  Odes/ 

"Speaking  of  odes  now  makes  me  think  of  ballads. 
Your  admirable  Mr.  Killigrew 
Has  latterly  committed  what  he  calls 
A  Ballad  of  London — London  'Town,'  of  course — 
And  he  has  wished  that  I  pass  judgment  on  :A 
He  says  there  is  a  'generosity' 
About  it,  and  a  'sympathetic  insight;' 
And  there  are  strong  lines  in  it,  so  he  says. 
But  who  am  I  that  he  should  make  of  me 
A  judge?    You  are  his  friend,  and  you  know  best 
143 


The  measure  of  his  jingle.    I  am  old, 

And  you  are  young.    Be  sure,  I  may  go  back 

To  squeak  for  you  the  tunes  of  yesterday 

On  my  old  fiddle — or  what's  left  of  it — 

And  give  you  as  I'm  able  a  young  sound; 

But  all  the  while  I  do  it  I  remain 

One  of  Apollo's  pensioners  (and  yours), 

An  usher  in  the  Palace  of  the  Sun, 

A  candidate  for  mattocks  and  trombones 

(The  brass-band  will  be  indispensable), 

A  patron  of  high  science,  but  no  critic. 

So  I  shall  have  to  tell  him,  I  suppose, 

That  I  read  nothing  now  but  Wordsworth,  Pope, 

Lucretius,  Eobert  Burns,  and  William  Shakespeare. 

Now  this  is  Mr.  Killigrew's  performance : 

"  'Say,  do  you  go  to  London  Town, 
You  with  the  golden  feather?' — 

'And  if  I  go  to  London  Town 
With  my  golden  feather?' — 

'These  autumn  roads  are  bright  and  brown, 

The  season  wears  a  russet  crown; 

And  if  you  go  to  London  Town, 
We'll  go  down  together' 

"I  cannot  say  for  certain,  but  I  think 

The  brown  bright  nightingale  was  half  assuaged 

Before  your  Mr.  Killigrew  was  born. 

If  I  have  erred  in  my  chronology, 

No  matter, — for  the  feathered  man  sings  now: 

"'Yes,  I  go  to  London  Town' 

(Merrily  waved  the  feather), 
'And  if  you  go  to  London  Town, 
Yes,  we'll  go  together' 
144 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

So  in  the  autumn  bright  and  ~brown, 
Just  as  the  year  began  to  frown, 
All  the  way  to  London  Town 
Rode  the  two  together. 

"  'I  go  to  marry  a  fair  maid' 

(Lightly  swung  the  feather) — 
'Par die,  a  true  and  loyal  maid" 

(Oh,  the  swinging  feather!) — 
'For  us  the  wedding  gold  is  weighed, 
For  us  the  feast  will  soon  be  laid; 
We'll  make  a  gallant  show,'  he  said, — 

'She  and  I  together' 

"The  feathered  man  may  do  a  thousand  things, 

And  all  go  smiling;  but  the  feathered  man 

May  do  too  much.    Now  mark  how  he  continues: 

"  'And  you — you  go  to  London  Town?' 

(Breezes  waved  the  feather) — 
'Yes,  I  go  to  London  Town' 

(Ah,  the  stinging  feather!) — 
'Why  do  you  go,  my  merry  blade? 
Like  me,  to  marry  a  fair  maid?' — 
'Why  do  I  go?  .  .  .  God  knows,'  he  said; 
And  on  they  rode  together. 

"Now  you  have  read-it  through,  and  you  know  best 
What  worth  it  has.    We  fellows  with  gray  hair 
Who  march  with  sticks  to  music  that  is  gray 
Judge  not  your  vanguard  fifing.    You  are  one 
To  judge;  and  you  will  tell  me  what  you  think. 
Barring  the  Town,  the  Fair  Maid,  and  the  Feather, 
The  dialogue  and  those  parentheses, 
145 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

You  cherish  it,  undoubtedly.     TardieP 
You  call  it,  with  a  few  conservative 
Allowances,  an  excellent  small  thing 
For  patient  inexperience  to  do: 
Derivative,  you  say, — still  rather  pretty. 
But  what  is  wrong  with  Mr.  Killigrew? 
Is  he  in  love,  or  has  he  read  Rossetti? — 
Forgive  me!    I  am  old  and  garrulous  .  .  . 
When  are  you  coming  back  to  Tilbury  Town?" 

Ill 

I  FOUND  the  old  man  sitting  in  his  bed, 

Propped  up  and  uncomplaining.    On  a  chair 

Beside  him  was  a  dreary  bowl  of  broth, 

A  magazine,  some  glasses,  and  a  pipe. 

"I  do  not  light  it  nowadays,"  he  said, 

"But  keep  it  for  an  antique  influence 

That  it  exerts,  an  aura  that  it  sheds — 

Like  hautboys,  or  Provence.    You  understand: 

The  charred  memorial  defeats  us  yet, 

But  think  you  not  for  always.    We  are  young, 

And  we  are  friends  of  time.    Time  that  made  smoke 

Will  drive  away  the  smoke,  and  we  shall  know 

The  work  that  we  are  doing.    We  shall  build 

With  embers  of  all  shrines  one  pyramid, 

And  we  shall  have  the  most  resplendent  flame 

From  earth  to  heaven,  as  the  old  words  go, 

And  we  shall  need  no  smoke  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  laugh  ?" 

I  gazed  into  those  calm,  half-lighted  eyes 

And  smiled  at  them  with  grim  obedience. 

He  told  me  that  I  did  it  very  well, 

But  added  that  I  should  undoubtedly 

Do  better  in  the  future:  "There  is  nothing," 

146 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

He  said,  "so  beneficial  in  a  sick-room 
As  a  well-bred  spontaneity  of  manner. 
Your  sympathetic  scowl  obtrudes  itself, 
And  is  indeed  surprising.     After  death, 
Were  you  to  take  it  with  you  to  your  coffin 
An  unimaginative  man  might  think 
That  you  had  lost  your  life  in  worrying 
To  find  out  what  it  was  that  worried  you. 
The  ways  of  unimaginative  men 
Are  singularly  fierce  .  .  .  Why  do  you  stand? 
Sit  here  and  watch  me  while  I  take  this  soup. 
The  doctor  likes  it,  therefore  it  is  good. 

"The  man  who  wrote  the  decalogue,"  pursued 

The  Captain,  having  swallowed  four  or  five 

Heroic  spoonfuls  of  his  lukewarm  broth, 

"Forgot  the  doctors.    And  I  think  sometimes 

The  man  of  Galilee  (or,  if  you  choose, 

The  men  who  made  the  sayings  of  the  man) 

Like  Buddha,  and  the  others  who  have  seen, 

Was  to  men's  loss  the  Poet — though  it  be 

The  Poet  only  of  him  we  revere, 

The  Poet  we  remember.     We  have  put 

The  prose  of  him  so  far  away  from  us, 

The  fear  of  him  so  crudely  over  us, 

That  I  have  wondered — wondered." — Cautiously, 

But  yet  as  one  were  cautious  in  a  dream, 

He  set  the  bowl  down  on  the  chair  again, 

Crossed  his  thin  fingers,  looked  me  in  the  face, 

And  looking  smiled  a  little.     "Go  away," 

He  said  at  last,  "and  let  me  go  to  sleep. 

I  told  you  I  should  eat,  but  I  shall  not. 

To-morrow  I  shall  eat;  and  I  shall  read 

Some  clauses  of  a  jocund  instrument 

That  I  have  been  preparing  here  of  late 

147 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

For  you  and  for  the  rest,  assuredly. 

'Attend  the  testament  of  Captain  Craig : 

Good  citizens,  good  fathers  and  your  sons, 

Good  mothers  and  your  daughters.'    I  should  say  so. 

Now  go  away  and  let  me  go  to  sleep." 

I  stood  before  him  and  held  out  my  hand, 

He  took  it,  pressed  it;  and  I  felt  again 

The  sick  soft  closing  on  it.    He  would  not 

Let  go,  but  lay  there,  looking  up  to  me 

With  eyes  that  had  a  sheen  of  water  on  them 

And  a  faint  wet  spark  within  them.     So  he  clung, 

Tenaciously,  with  fingers  icy  warm, 

And  eyes  too  full  to  keep  the  sheen  unbroken. 

I  looked  at  him.     The  fingers  closed  hard  once, 

And  then  fell  down. — I  should  have  left  him  then. 

But  when  we  found  him  the  next  afternoon, 
My  first  thought  was  that  he  had  made  his  eyes 
Miraculously  smaller.     They  were  sharp 
And  hard  and  dry,  and  the  spark  in  them  was  dry. 
For  a  glance  it  all  but  seemed  as  if  the  man 
Had  artfully  forsworn  the  brimming  gaze 
Of  yesterday,  and  with  a  wizard  strength 
Inveigled  in,  reduced,  and  vitalized 
The  straw-shine  of  October;  and  had  that 
Been  truth,  we  should  have  humored  him  no  less, 
Albeit  he  had  fooled  us, — for  he  said 
That  we  had  made  him  glad  by  coming  to  him. 
And  he  was  glad :  the  manner  of  his  words 
Revealed  the  source  of  them ;  and  the  gray  smile 
Which  lingered  like  a  twilight  on  his  face 
Told  of  its  own  slow  fading  that  it  held 
The  promise  of  the  sun.    Cadaverous, 
God  knows  it  was ;  and  we  knew  it  was  honest. 
148 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

"So  you  have  come  to  hear  the  old  man  read 
To  you  from  his  last  will  and  testament: 
Well,  it  will  not  be  long — not  very  long — 
So  listen."    He  brought  out  from  underneath 
His  pillow  a  new  manuscript,  and  said, 
"You  have  done  well  to  come  and  hear  me  read 
My  testament.     There  are  men  in  the  world 
Who  say  of  me,  if  they  remember  me, 
That  I  am  poor; — and  I  believe  the  ways 
Of  certain  men  who  never  find  things  out 
Are  stranger  than  the  way  Lord  Bacon  wrote 
Leviticus,  and  Faust."    He  fixed  his  eyes 
Abstractedly  on  something  far  from  us, 
And  with  a  look  that  I  remembered  well 
Gazed  hard  the  while  we  waited.     But  at  length 
He  found  himself  and  soon  began  to  chant, 
With  a  fitful  shift  at  thin  sonorousness 
The  jocund  instrument;  and  had  he  been 
Definitively  parceling  to  us 
All  Kimberley  and  half  of  Ballarat, 
The  lordly  quaver  of  his  poor  old  words 
Could  not  have  been  the  more  magniloquent. 
No  promise  of  dead  carbon  or  of  gold, 
However,  flashed  in  ambush  to  corrupt  us : 

"I,  Captain  Craig,  abhorred  iconoclast, 
Sage-errant,  favored  of  the  Mysteries, 
And  self-reputed  humorist  at  large, 
Do  now,  confessed  of  my  world-worshiping, 
Time-questioning,  sun-fearing,  and  heart-yielding, 
Approve  and  unreservedly  devise 
To  you  and  your  assigns  for  evermore, 
God's  universe  and  yours.    If  I  had  won 
What  first  I  sought,  I  might  have  made  you  beam 
By  giving  less ;  but  now  I  make  you  laugh 
149 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

By  giving  more  than  what  had  made  you  beam, 

And  it  is  well.    No  man  has  ever  done 

The  deed  of  humor  that  God  promises, 

But  now  and  then  we  know  tragedians 

Reform,  and  in  denial  too  divine 

For  sacrifice,  too  firm  for  ecstasy, 

Record  in  letters,  or  in  books  they  write, 

What  fragment  of  God's  humor  they  have  caught, 

What  earnest  of  its  rhythm;  and  I  believe 

That  I,  in  having  somewhat  recognized 

The  formal  measure  of  it,  have  endured 

The  discord  of  infirmity  no  less 

Through  fortune  than  by  failure.    What  men  lose, 

Man  gains;  and  what  man  gains  reports  itself 

In  losses  we  but  vaguely  deprecate, 

So  they  be  not  for  us ; — and  this  is  right, 

Except  that  when  the  devil  in  the  sun 

Misguides  us  we  go  darkly  where  the  shine 

Misleads  us,  and  we  know  not  what  we  see: 

We  know  not  if  we  climb  or  if  we  fall; 

And  if  we  fly,  we  know  not  where  we  fly. 

"And  here  do  I  insert  an  urging  clause 
For  climbers  and  up-fliers  of  all  sorts, 
Cliff-climbers  and  high-fliers :  Phaethon, 
Bellerophon,  and  Icarus  did  each 
Go  gloriously  up,  and  each  in  turn 
Did  famously  come  down — as  you  have  read 
In  poems  and  elsewhere ;  but  other  men 
Have  mounted  where  no  fame  has  followed  them, 
And  we  have  had  no  sight,  no  news  of  them, 
And  we  have  heard  no  crash.    The  crash  may  count, 
Undoubtedly,  and  earth  be  fairer  for  it; 
Yet  none  save  creatures  out  of  harmony 
Have  ever,  in  their  fealty  to  the  flesh, 
150 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Made  crashing  an  ideal.    It  is  the  flesh 
That  ails  us,  for  the  spirit  knows  no  qualm, 
No  failure,  no  down-falling:  so  climb  high, 
And  having  set  your  steps  regard  not  much 
The  downward  laughter  clinging  at  your  feet, 
Nor  overmuch  the  warning;  only  know, 
As  well  as  you  know  dawn  from  lantern-light, 
That  far  above  you,  for  you,  and  within  you, 
There  burns  and  shines  and  lives,  unwavering 
And  always  yours,  the  truth.    Take  on  yourself 
But  your  sincerity,  and  you  take  on 
Good  promise  for  all  climbing:  fly  for  truth, 
And  hell  shall  have  no  storm  to  crush  your  flight, 
No  laughter  to  vex  down  your  loyalty. 

"I  think  you  may  be  smiling  at  me  now — 
And  if  I  make  you  smile,  so  much  the  better; 
For  I  would  have  you  know  that  I  rejoice 
Always  to  see  the  thing  that  I  would  see — 
The  righteous  thing,  the  wise  thing.    I  rejoice 
Always  to  think  that  any  thought  of  mine, 
Or  any  word  or  any  deed  of  mine, 
May  grant  sufficient  of  what  fortifies 
Good  feeling  and  the  courage  of  calm  joy 
To  make  the  joke  worth  while.    Contrariwise, 
When  I  review  some  faces  I  have  known — 
Sad  faces,  hungry  faces — and  reflect 
On  thoughts  I  might  have  moulded,  human  words 
I  might  have  said,  straightway  it  saddens  me 
To  feel  perforce  that  had  I  not  been  mute 
And  actionless,  I  might  have  made  them  bright 
Somehow,  though  only  for  the  moment.    Yes, 
Howbeit  I  may  confess  the  vanities, 
It  saddens  me;  and  sadness,  of  all  things 
Miscounted  wisdom,  and  the  most  of  all 
151 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

When  wanned  with  old  illusions  and  regrets, 
I  mark  the  selfishest,  and  on  like  lines 
The  shrewdest.    For  your  sadness  makes  you  climb 
With  dragging  footsteps,  and  it  makes  you  groan; 
It  hinders  you  when  most  you  would  be  free, 
And  there  are  many  days  it  wearies  you 
Beyond  the  toil  itself.    And  if  the  load 
It  lays  on  you  may  not  be  shaken  off 
Till  you  have  known  what  now  you  do  not  know — 
Meanwhile  you  climb ;  and  he  climbs  best  who  sees 
Above  him  truth  burn  faithfulest,  and  feels 
Within  him  truth  burn  purest.     Climb  or  fall, 
One  road  remains  and  one  firm  guidance  always ; 
One  way  that  shall  be  taken,  climb  or  fall. 

"But  'falling,  falling,  falling.'    There's  your  song, 
The  cradle-song  that  sings  you  to  the  grave. 
What  is  it  your  bewildered  poet  says? — 

"'The  toiling  ocean  thunders  of  unrest 

And  aching  desolation;  the  still  sea 

Paints  but  an  outward  calm  that  mocks  itself 

To  the  final  and  irrefragable  sleep 

That  owns  no  shifting  fury;  and  the  shoals 

Of  ages  are  but  records  of  regret 

Where  Time,  the  sun's  arch-phantom,  writes  on  sand 

The  prelude  of  his  ancient  nothingness.' 

"'T  is  easy  to  compound  a  dirge  like  that, 
And  it  is  easy  to  be  deceived 
And  alienated  by  the  fleshless  note 
Of  half- world  yearning  in  it;  but  the  truth 
To  which  we  all  are  tending, — charlatans 
And  architects  alike,  artificers 
In  tinsel  as  in  gold,  evangelists 
152 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Of  ruin  and  redemption,  all  alike, — 

The  truth  we  seek  and  equally  the  truth. 

We  do  not  seek,  but  yet  may  not  escape, 

Was  never  found  alone  through  flesh  contempt 

Or  through  flesh  reverence.    Look  east  and  west 

And  we  may  read  the  story :  where  the  light 

Shone  first  the  shade  now  darkens;  where  the  shade 

Clung  first,  the  light  fights  westward — though  the  shade 

Still  feeds,  and  there  is  yet  the  Orient. 

"But  there  is  this  to  be  remembered  always: 
Whatever  be  the  altitude  you  reach, 
You  do  not  rise  alone;  nor  do  you  fall 
But  you  drag  others  down  to  more  or  less 
Than  your  preferred  abasement.     God  forbid 
That  ever  I  should  preach,  and  in  my  zeal 
Forget  that  I  was  born  an  humorist; 
But  now,  for  once,  before  I  go  away, 
I  beg  of  you  to  be  magnanimous 
A  moment,  while  I  speak  to  please  myself: 

"Though  I  have  heard  it  variously  sung 
That  even  in  the  fury  and  the  clash 
Of  battles,  and  the  closer  fights  of  men 
When  silence  gives  the  knowing  world  no  sign, 
One  flower  there  is,  though  crushed  and  cursed  it  be, 
Keeps  rooted  through  all  tumult  and  all  scorn, — 
Still  do  I  find,  when  I  look  sharply  down, 
There's  yet  another  flower  that  grows  well 
And  has  the  most  unconscionable  roots 
Of  any  weed  on  earth.    Perennial 
It  grows,  and  has  the  name  of  Selfishness; 
No  doubt  you  call  it  Love.    In  either  case, 
You  propagate  it  with  a  diligence 
That  hardly  were  outmeasured  had  its  leaf 
153 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  very  juice  in  it  of  that  famed  herb 

Which  gave  back  breath  to  Glaucus ;  and  I  know 

That  in  the  twilight,  after  the  day's  work, 

You  take  your  little  children  in  your  arms, 

Or  lead  them  by  their  credulous  frail  hands 

Benignly  out  and  through  the  garden-gate 

And  show  them  there  the  things  that  you  have  raised ; 

Not  everything,  perchance,  but  always  one 

Miraculously  rooted  flower  plot 

Which  is  your  pride,  their  pattern.    Socrates, 

Could  he  be  with  you  there  at  such  a  time, 

Would  have  some  unsolicited  shrewd  words 

To  say  that  you  might  hearken  to;  but  I 

Say  nothing,  for  I  am  not  Socrates. — 

So  much,  good  friends,  for  flowers ;  and  I  thank  you. 

"There  was  a  poet  once  who  would  have  roared 
Away  the  world  and  had  an  end  of  stars. 
Where  was  he  when  I  quoted  him? — oh,  yes: 
'T  is  easy  for  a  man  to  link  loud  words 
With  woeful  pomp  and  unschooled  emphasis 
And  add  one  thundered  contribution  more 
To  the  dirges  of  all-hollowness,  I  said; 
But  here  again  I  find  the  question  set 
Before  me,  after  turning  books  on  books 
And  looking  soulward  through  man  after  man, 
If  there  indeed  be  more  determining 
Play-service  in  remotely  sounding  down 
The  world's  one-sidedness.    If  I  judge  right, 
Your  pounding  protestations,  echoing 
Their  burden  of  unfraught  futility, 
Surge  back  to  mute  forgetfulness  at  last 
And  have  a  kind  of  sunny,  sullen  end, 
Like  any  cold  north  storm. — But  there  are  few 
Still  seas  that  have  no  life  to  profit  them, 
154 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

And  even  in  such  currents  of  the  mind 

As  have  no  tide-rush  in  them,  but  are  drowsed, 

Crude  thoughts  may  dart  in  armor  and  upspring 

With  waking  sound,  when  all  is  dim  with  peace, 

Like  sturgeons  in  the  twilight  out  of  Lethe ; 

And  though  they  be  discordant,  hard,  grotesque, 

And  all  unwelcome  to  the  lethargy 

That  you  think  means  repose,  you  know  as  well 

As  if  your  names  were  shouted  when  they  leap, 

And  when  they  leap  you  listen. — Ah!  friends,  friends, 

There  are  these  things  we  do  not  like  to  know : 

They  trouble  us,  they  make  us  hesitate, 

They  touch  us,  and  we  try  to  put  them  off. 

We  banish  one  another  and  then  say 

That  we  are  left  alone :  the  midnight  leaf 

That  rattles  where  it  hangs  above  the  snow — 

Gaunt,  fluttering,  forlorn — scarcely  may  seem 

So  cold  in  all  its  palsied  loneliness 

As  we,  we  frozen  brothers,  who  have  yet 

Profoundly  and  severely  to  find  out 

That  there  is  more  of  unpermitted  love 

In  most  men's  reticence  than  most  men  think. 

"Once,  when  I  made  it  out  fond-headedness 
To  say  that  we  should  ever  be  apprised 
Of  our  deserts  and  their  emolument 
At  all  but  in  the  specious  way  of  words, 
The  wisdom  of  a  warm  thought  woke  within  me 
And  I  could  read  the  sun.    Then  did  I  turn 
My  long-defeated  face  full  to  the  world, 
And  through  the  clouded  warfare  of  it  all 
Discern  the  light.     Through  dusk  that  hindered  it, 
I  found  the  truth,  and  for  the  first  whole  time 
Knew  then  that  we  were  climbing.    Not  as  one 
Who  mounts  along  with  his  experience 
155 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Bound  on  him  like  an  Old  Man  of  the  Sea — 

Not  as  a  moral  pedant  who  drags  chains 

Of  his  unearned  ideals  after  him 

And  always  to  the  lead-like  thud  they  make 

Attunes  a  cold  inhospitable  chant 

Of  All  Things  Easy  to  the  Non- Attached,— 

But  as  a  man,  a  scarred  man  among  men, 

I  knew  it,  and  I  felt  the  strings  of  thought 

Between  us  to  pull  tight  the  while  I  strove; 

And  if  a  curse  came  ringing  now  and  then 

To  my  defended  ears,  how  could  I  know 

The  light  that  burned  above  me  and  within  me, 

And  at  the  same  time  put  on  cap-and-bells 

For  such  as  yet  were  groping?" 

Killigrew 

Made  there  as  if  to  stifle  a  small  cough. 
I  might  have  kicked  him,  but  regret  forbade 
The  subtle  admonition;  and  indeed 
When  afterwards  I  reprimanded  him, 
The  fellow  never  knew  quite  what  I  meant. 
I  may  have  been  unjust. — The  Captain  read 
Eight  on,  without  a  chuckle  or  a  pause, 
As  if  he  had  heard  nothing : 

"How,   forsooth, 

Shall  any  man,  by  curses  or  by  groans, 
Or  by  the  laugh-jarred  stillness  of  all  hell, 
Be  so  drawn  down  to  servitude  again 
That  on  some  backward  level  of  lost  laws 
And  undivined  relations,  he  may  know 
No  longer  Love's  imperative  resource, 
Firm  once  and  his,  well  treasured  then,  but  now 
Too  fondly  thrown  away?    And  if  there  come 
But  once  on  all  his  journey,  singing  down. 
156 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

To  find  him,  the  gold-throated  forward  call, 

What  way  but  one,  what  but  the  forward  way, 

Shall  after  that  call  guide  him  ?    When  his  ears 

Have  earned  an  inward  skill  to  methodize 

The  clash  of  all  crossed  voices  and  all  noises, 

How  shall  he  grope  to  be  confused  again, 

As  he  has  been,  by  discord?    When  his  eyes 

Have  read  the  book  of  wisdom  in  the  sun, 

And  after  dark  deciphered  it  on  earth, 

How  shall  he  turn  them  back  to  scan  some  huge 

Blood-lettered  protest  of  bewildered  men 

That  hunger  while  he  feeds  where  they  would  starve 

And  all  absurdly  perish?" 

Killigrew 

Looked  hard  for  a  subtile  object  on  the  wall, 
And,  having  found  it,  sighed.    The  Captain  paused : 
If  he  grew  tedious,  most  assuredly 
Did  he  crave  pardon  of  us ;  he  had  feared 
Beforehand  that  he  might  be  wearisome, 
But  there  was  not  much  more  of  it,  he  said, — 
No  more  than  just  enough.    And  we  rejoiced 
That  he  should  look  so  kindly  on  us  then. 
("Commend  me  to  a  dying  man's  grimace 
For  absolute  humor,  always,"  Killigrew 
Maintains;  but  I  know  better.) 

"Work  for  them, 

You  tell  me?    Work  the  folly  out  of  them? 
Go  back  to  them  and  teach  them  how  to  climb, 
While  you  teach  caterpillars  how  to  fly? 
You  tell  me  that  Alnaschar  is  a  fool 
Because  he  dreams?    And  what  is  this  you  ask? 
I  make  him  wise  ?    I  teach  him  to  be  still  ? 
While  you  go  polishing  the  Pyramids, 
157 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

I  hold  Alnaschar's  feet?    And  while  you  have 

The  ghost  of  Memnon's  image  all  day  singing, 

I  sit  with  aching  arms  and  hardly  catch 

A  few  spilled  echoes  of  the  song  of  songs — 

The  song  that  I  should  have  as  utterly 

For  mine  as  other  men  should  once  have  had 

The  sweetest  a  glad  shepherd  ever  trilled 

In  Sharon,  long  ago  ?    Is  this  the  way 

For  me  to  do  good  climbing  any  more 

Than  Phaethon's  ?    Do  you  think  the  golden  tone 

Of  that  far-singing  call  you  all  have  heard 

Means  any  more  for  you  than  you  should  be 

Wise-heartedly,  glad-heartedly  yourselves? 

Do  this,  there  is  no  more  for  you  to  do; 

And  you  have  no  dread  left,  no  shame,  no  scorn. 

And  while  you  have  your  wisdom  and  your  gold, 

Songs  calling,  and  the  Princess  in  your  arms, 

Remember,  if  you  like,  from  time  to  time, 

Down  yonder  where  the  clouded  millions  go, 

Your  bloody-knuckled  scullions  are  not  slaves, 

Your  children  of  Alnaschar  are  not  fools. 

"Nor  are  they  quite  so  foreign  or  far  down 
As  you  may  think  to  see  them.    What  you  take 
To  be  the  cursedest  mean  thing  that  crawls 
On  earth  is  nearer  to  you  than  you  know : 
You  may  not  ever  crush  him  but  you  lose, 
You  may  not  ever  shield  him  but  you  gain — 
As  he,  with  all  his  crookedness,  gains  with  you. 
Your  preaching  and  your  teaching,  your  achieving, 
Your  lifting  up  and  your  discovering, 
Are  more  than  often — more  than  you  have  dreamed- 
The  world-refracted  evidence  of  what 
Your  dream  denies.    You  cannot  hide  yourselves 
In  any  multitude  or  solitude, 
158 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Or  mask  yourselves  in  any  studied  guise 

Of  hardness  or  of  old  humility, 

But  soon  by  some  discriminating  man — 

Some  humorist  at  large,  like  Socrates — 

You  get  yourselves  found  out. — Now  I  should  be 

Found  out  without  an  effort.    For  example: 

When  I  go  riding,  trimmed  and  shaved  again, 

Consistent,  adequate,  respectable, — 

Some  citizen,  for  curiosity, 

Will  ask  of  a  good  neighbor,  'What  is  this  ?' — 

'It  is  the  funeral  of  Captain  Craig,' 

Will  be  the  neighbor's  word. — 'And  who,  good  man, 

Was  Captain  Craig?' — 'He  was  an  humorist; 

And  we  are  told  that  there  is  nothing  more 

For  any  man  alive  to  say  of  him.' — 

'There  is  nothing  very  strange  in  that,'  says  A ; 

'But  the  brass  band?    What  has  he  done  to  be 

Blown  through  like  this  by  cornets  and  trombones  ? 

And  here  you  have  this  incompatible  dirge — 

Where  are  the  jokes  in  that  ?' — Then  B  should  say : 

'Maintained  his  humor:  nothing  more  or  less. 

The  story  goes  that  on  the  day  before 

He  died — some  say  a  week,  but  that's  a  trifle — 

He  said,  with  a  subdued  facetiousness, 

"Play  Handel,  not  Chopin;  assuredly  not 

Chopin." ' — He  was  indeed  an  humorist." 

He  made  the  paper  fall  down  at  arm's  length; 
And  with  a  tension  of  half-quizzical 
Benignity  that  made  it  hard  for  us, 
He  looked  up — first  at  Morgan,  then  at  me — 
Almost,  I  thought,  as  if  his  eyes  would  ask 
If  we  were  satisfied;  and  as  he  looked, 
The  tremor  of  an  old  heart's  weariness 
Was  on  his  mouth.    He  gazed  at  each  of  us, 
159 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

But  spoke  no  further  word  that  afternoon. 
He  put  away  the  paper,  closed  his  eyes, 
And  went  to  sleep  with  his  lips  flickering; 
And  after  that  we  left  him. — At  midnight 
Plunket  and  I  looked  in;  but  he  still  slept, 
And  everything  was  going  as  it  should. 
The  watchman  yawned,  rattled  his  newspaper, 
And  wondered  what  it  was  that  ailed  his  lamp. 

Next  day  we  found  the  Captain  wide  awake, 
Propped  up,  and  searching  dimly  with  a  spoon 
Through  another  dreary  dish  of  chicken-broth, 
Which  he  raised  up  to  me,  at  my  approach, 
So  fervently  and  so  unconsciously, 
That  one  could  only  laugh.    He  looked  again 
At  each  of  us,  and  as  he  looked  he  frowned; 
And  there  was  something  in  that  frown  of  his 
That  none  of  us  had  ever  seen  before. 
"Kind  friends,"  he  said,  "be  sure  that  I  rejoice 
To  know  that  you  have  come  to  visit  me ; 
Be  sure  I  speak  with  undisguised  words 
And  earnest,  when  I  say  that  I  rejoice." — 
"But  what  the  devil!"  whispered  Killigrew. 
I  kicked  him,  for  I  thought  I  understood. 
The  old  man's  eyes  had  glimmered  wearily 
At  first,  but  now  they  glittered  like  to  those 
Of  a  glad  fish.    "Beyond  a  doubt,"  said  he, 
"My  dream  this  morning  was  more  singular 
Than  any  other  I  have  ever  known. 
Give  me  that  I  might  live  ten  thousand  years, 
And  all  those  years  do  nothing  but  have  dreams, 
I  doubt  me  much  if  any  one  of  them 
Could  be  so  quaint  or  so  fantastical, 
So  pregnant,  as  a  dream  of  mine  this  morning. 
You  may  not  think  it  any  more  than  odd; 

160 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

You  may  not  feel — you  cannot  wholly  feel — 
How  droll  it  was : — I  dreamed  that  I  found  Hamlet- 
Found  him  at  work,  drenched  with  an  angry  sweat, 
Predestined,  he  declared  with  emphasis, 
To  root  out  a  large  weed  on  Lethe  wharf; 
And  after  I  had  watched  him  for  some  time, 
I  laughed  at  him  and  told  him  that  no  root 
Would  ever  come  the  while  he  talked  like  that : 
The  power  was  not  in  him,  I  explained, 
For  such  compound  accomplishment.    He  glared 
At  me,  of  course, — next  moment  laughed  at  me, 
And  finally  laughed  with  me.    I  was  right, 
And  we  had  eisel  on  the  strength  of  it : — 
'They  tell  me  that  this  water  is  not  good/ 
Said  Hamlet,  and  you  should  have  seen  him  smile. 
Conceited?    Pelion  and  Ossa? — pah  .  .  . 

"But  anon  comes  in  a  crocodile.    We  stepped 
Adroitly  down  upon  the  back  of  him, 
And  away  we  went  to  an  undiscovered  country — 
A  fertile  place,  but  in  more  ways  than  one 
So  like  the  region  we  had  started  from, 
That  Hamlet  straightway  found  another  weed 
And  there  began  to  tug.    I  laughed  again, 
Till  he  cried  out  on  me  and  on  my  mirth, 
Protesting  all  he  knew:     The  Fates,'  he  said, 
'Have  ordered  it  that  I  shall  have  these  roots.' 
But  all  at  once  a  dreadful  hunger  seized  him, 
And  it  was  then  we  killed  the  crocodile — 
Killed  him  and  ate  him.    Washed  with  eisel  down 
That  luckless  reptile  was,  to  the  last  morsel ; 
And  there  we  were  with  flag-fens  all  around  us, — 
And  there  was  Hamlet,  at  his  task  again, 
Ridiculous.     And  while  I  watched  his  work, 
The  drollest  of  all  changes  came  to  pass. 
161 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  weed  had  snapped  off  just  above  the  root. 

Not  warning  him,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

The  bubbles  rose,  and  I  laughed  heartily 

To  think  of  him;  I  laughed  when  I  woke  up; 

And  when  my  soup  came  in  I  laughed  again; 

I  think  I  may  have  laughed  a  little — no? — 

Not  when  you  came  ?  .  .  .  Why  do  you  look  like  that  ? 

You  don't  believe  me  ?    Crocodiles — why  not  ? 

Who  knows  what  he  has  eaten  in  his  life? 

Who  knows  but  I  have  eaten  Atropos?  .  .  . 

'Briar  and  oak  for  a  soldier's  crown/  you  say? 

Provence?    Oh,  no  ...  Had  I  been  Socrates, 

Count  Pretzel  would  have  been  the  King  of  Spain." 

Now  of  all  casual  things  we  might  have  said 
To  make  the  matter  smooth  at  such  a  time, 
There  may  have  been  a  few  that  we  had  found 
Sufficient.     Recollection  fails,  however, 
To  say  that  we  said  anything.    We  looked. 
Had  he  been  Carmichael,  we  might  have  stood 
Like  faithful  hypocrites  and  laughed  at  him; 
But  the  Captain  was  not  Carmichael  at  all, 
For  the  Captain  had  no  frogs :  he  had  the  sun. 
So  there  we  waited,  hungry  for  the  word, — 
Tormented,  unsophisticated,  stretched — 
Till,  with  a  drawl,  to  save  us,  Killigrew 
Good-humoredly  spoke  out.     The  Captain  fixed 
His  eyes  on  him  with  some  severity. 

"That  was  a  funny  dream,  beyond  a  doubt," 
Said  Killigrew ; — "too  funny  to  be  laughed  at ; 
Too  humorous,  we  mean." — "Too  humorous?" 
The  Captain  answered;  "I  approve  of  that. 
Proceed." — We  were  not  glad  for  Killigrew. 
<rWell,"  he  went  on,  "  't  was  only  this.    You  see 
162 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

My  dream  this  morning  was  a  droll  one  too: 

I  dreamed  that  a  sad  man  was  in  my  room, 

Sitting,  as  I  do  now,  beside  the  bed. 

I  questioned  him,  but  he  made  no  reply, — 

Said  not  a  word,  but  sang." — "Said  not  a  word, 

But  sang,"  the  Captain  echoed.    "Very  good. 

Now  tell  me  what  it  was  the  sad  man  sang." 

"Now  that,"  said  Killigrew,  constrainedly, 

And  with  a  laugh  that  might  have  been  left  out, 

"Is  why  I  know  it  must  have  been  a  dream. 

But  there  he  was,  and  I  lay  in  the  bed 

Like  you ;  and  I  could  see  him  just  as  well 

As  you  see  my  right  hand.    And  for  the  songs 

He  sang  to  me — there's  where  the  dream  part  comes." 

"You  don't  remember  them?"  the  Captain  said, 
With  a  weary  little  chuckle;  "very  well, 
I  might  have  guessed  it.    Never  mind  your  dream, 
But  let  me  go  to  sleep." — For  a  moment  then 
There  was  a  frown  on  Killigrew's  good  face, 
And  then  there  was    a  smile.    "Not  quite,"  said  he; 
"The  songs  that  he  sang  first  were  sorrowful, 
And  they  were  stranger  than  the  man  himself — 
And  he  was  very  strange;  but  I  found  out, 
Through  all  the  gloom  of  him  and  of  his  music, 
That  a — say,  well,  say  mystic  cheerfulness, 
Pervaded  him;  for  slowly,  as  he  sang, 
There  came  a  change,  and  I  began  to  know 
The  method  of  it  all.     Song  after  song 
Was  ended;  and  when  I  had  listened  there 
For  hours — I  mean  for  dream-hours — hearing  him, 
And  always  glad  that  I  was  hearing  him, 
There  came  another  change — a  great  one.    Tears 
Rolled  out  at  last  like  bullets  from  his  eyes, 
And  I  could  hear  them  fall  down  on  the  floor 
163 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Like  shoes ;  and  they  were  always  marking  time 
For  the  song  that  he  was  singing.    I  have  lost 
The  greater  number  of  his  verses  now, 
But  there  are  some,  like  these,  that  I  remember: 

"'Ten  men  from  Zanzibar, 
Black  as  iron  hammers  are, 
Riding  on  a  cable-car 
Down  to  Crowley's  theatre'  .  .  . 

"Ten  men?"  the  Captain  interrupted  there — 

"Ten  men,  my  Euthyphron?    That  is  beautiful. 

But  never  mind,  I  wish  to  go  to  sleep : 

Tell  Cebes  that  I  wish  to  go  to  sleep.  .  .  . 

O  ye  of  little  faith,  your  golden  plumes 

Are  like  to  drag  .  .  .  par-dee !" — We  may  have  smiled 

In  after  days  to  think  how  Killigrew 

Had  sacrificed  himself  to  fight  that  silence, 

But  we  were  grateful  to  him,  none  the  less; 

And  if  we  smiled,  that  may  have  been  the  reason. 

But  the  good  Captain  for  a  long  time  then 

Said  nothing:  he  lay  quiet — fast  asleep, 

For  all  that  we  could  see.    We  waited  there 

Till  each  of  us,  I  fancy,  must  have  made 

The  paper  on  the  wall  begin  to  squirm, 

And  then  got  up  to  leave.    My  friends  went  out, 

And  I  was  going,  when  the  old  man  cried: 

"You  leave  me  now — now  it  has  come  to  this  ? 

What  have  I  done  to  make  you  go  ?    Come  back  1 

Comeback!" 

There  was  a  quaver  in  his  cry 
That  we  shall  not  forget — reproachful,  kind, 
Indignant,  piteous.    It  seemed  as  one 
Marooned  on  treacherous  tide-feeding  sand 
164 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Were  darkly  calling  over  the  still  straits 

Between  him  and  irrevocable  shores 

Where  now  there  was  no  lamp  to  fade  for  him, 

No  call  to  give  him  answer.    We  were  there 

Before  him,  but  his  eyes  were  not  much  turned 

On  us ;  nor  was  it  very  much  to  us 

That  he  began  to  speak  the  broken  words, 

The  scattered  words,  that  he  had  left  in  him. 

"So  it  has  come  to  this  ?    And  what  is  this  ? 

Death,  do  you  call  it  ?    Death  ?    And  what  is  death  ? 

Why  do  you  look  like  that  at  me  again? 

Why  do  you  shrink  your  brows  and  shut  your  lips  ? 

If  it  be  fear,  then  I  can  do  no  more 

Than  hope  for  all  of  you  that  you  may  find 

Your  promise  of  the  sun;  if  it  be  grief 

You  feel,  to  think  that  this  old  face  of  mine 

May  never  look  at  you  and  laugh  again, 

Then  tell  me  why  it  is  that  you  have  gone 

So  long  with  me,  and  followed  me  so  far, 

And  had  me  to  believe  you  took  my  words 

For  more  than  ever  misers  did  their  gold  ?" 

He  listened,  but  his  eyes  were  far  from  us — 
Too  far  to  make  us  turn  to  Killigrew, 
Or  search  the  futile  shelves  of  our  own  thoughts 
For  golden-labeled  insincerities 
To  make  placebos  of.    The  marrowy  sense 
Of  slow  November  rain  that  splashed  against 
The  shingles  and  the  glass  reminded  us 
That  we  had  brought  umbrellas.    He  continued: 
"Oh,  can  it  be  that  I,  too  credulous, 
Have  made  myself  believe  that  you  believe 
Yourselves  to  be  the  men  that  you  are  not? 
I  prove  and  I  prize  well  your  friendliness, 
165 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

But  I  would  have  that  your  last  look  at  me 

Be  not  like  this;  for  I  would  scan  to-day 

Strong  thoughts  on  all  your  faces — no  regret, 

No  still  commiseration — oh,  not  that! — 

No  doubt,  no  fear.    A  man  may  be  as  brave 

As  Ajax  in  the  fury  of  his  arms, 

And  in  the  midmost  warfare  of  his  thoughts 

Be  frail  as  Paris  .  .  .  For  the  love,  therefore, 

That  brothered  us  when  we  stood  back  that  day 

From  Delium — the  love  that  holds  us  now 

More  than  it  held  us  at  Amphipolis — 

Forget  you  not  that  he  who  in  his  work 

Would  mount  from  these  low  roads  of  measured  shame 

To  tread  the  leagueless  highway  must  fling  first 

And  fling  forevermore  beyond  his  reach 

The  shackles  of  a  slave  who  doubts  the  sun. 

There  is  no  servitude  so  fraudulent 

As  of  a  sun-shut  mind ;  for  't  is  the  mind 

That  makes  you  craven  or  invincible, 

Diseased  or  puissant.    .The  mind  will  pay 

Ten  thousand  fold  and  be  the  richer  then 

To  grant  new  service;  but  the  world  pays  hard, 

And  accurately  sickens  till  in  years 

The  dole  has  eked  its  end  and  there  is  left 

What  all  of  you  are  noting  on  all  days 

In  these  Athenian  streets,  where  squandered  men 

Drag  ruins  of  half -warriors  to  the  grave — 

Or  to  Hippocrates." 

His  head  fell  back, 

And  he  lay  still  with  wearied  eyes  half-closed. 
We  waited,  but  a  few  faint  words  yet  stayed: 
"Kind  friends,"  he  said,  "friends  I  have  known  so  long, 
Though  I  have  jested  with  you  in  time  past, 
Though  I  have  stung  your  pride  with  epithets 

166 


CAPTAIN  CRAIG 

Not  all  forbearing, — still,  when  I  am  gone, 
Say  Socrates  wrought  always  for  the  best 
And  for  the  wisest  end  .  .  .  Give  me  the  cup ! 
The  truth  is  yours,  God's  universe  is  yours  .  .  . 
Good-by  .  .  .  good  citizens  .  .  .  give  me  the  cup"  . 
Again  we  waited;  and  this  time  we  knew 
Those  lips  of  his  that  would  not  flicker  down 
Had  yet  some  fettered  message  for  us  there. 
We  waited,  and  we  watched  him.    All  at  once, 
With  a  faint  flash,  the  clouded  eyes  grew  clear, 
And  then  we  knew  the  man  was  coming  back. 
We  watched  him,  and  I  listened.     The  man  smiled 
And  looked  about  him — not  regretfully, 
Not  anxiously;  and  when  at  last  he  spoke, 
Before  the  long  drowse  came  to  give  him  peace, 
One  word  was  all  he  said.    "Trombones,"  he  said. 


That  evening,  at  "The  Chrysalis"  again, 
We  smoked  and  looked  at  one  another's  eyes, 
And  we  were  glad.    The  world  had  scattered  ways 
For  us  to  take,  we  knew;  but  for  the  time 
That  one  snug  room  where  big  beech  logs  roared  smooth 
Defiance  to  the  cold  rough  rain  outside 
Sufficed.    There  were  no  scattered  ways  for  us 
That  we  could  see  just  then,  and  we  were  glad: 
We  were  glad  to  be  on  earth,  and  we  rejoiced 
No  less  for  Captain  Craig  that  he  was  gone. 
We  might,  for  his  dead  benefit,  have  run 
The  gamut  of  all  human  weaknesses 
And  uttered  after-platitudes  enough — 
Wrecked  on  his  own  abstractions,  and  all  such — 
To  drive  away  Gambrinus  and  the  bead 
From  Bernard's  ale;  and  I  suppose  we  might 
Have  praised,  accordingly,  the  Lord  of  Hosts 
167 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

For  letting  us  believe  that  we  were  not 
The  least  and  idlest  of  His  handiwork. 

So  Plunket,  who  had  knowledge  of  all  sorts, 
Yet  hardly  ever  spoke,  began  to  plink 
0  tu,  Palermo! — quaintly,  with  his  nails, — 
On  Morgan's  fiddle,  and  at  once  got  seized, 
As  if  he  were  some  small  thing,  by  the  neck. 
Then  the  consummate  Morgan,  having  told 
Explicitly  what  hardship  might  accrue 
To  Plunket  if  he  did  that  any  more, 
Made  roaring  chords  and  acrobatic  runs — 
And  then,  with  his  kind  eyes  on  Killigrew, 
Struck  up  the  schoolgirls'  march  in  Lohengrin, 
So  Killigrew  might  smile  and  stretch  himself 
And  have  to  light  his  pipe.    When  that  was  done 
We  knew  that  Morgan,  by  the  looks  of  him, 
Was  in  the  mood  for  almost  anything 
From  Bach  to  Offenbach;  and  of  all  times 
That  he  has  ever  played,  that  one  somehow — 
That  evening  of  the  day  the  Captain  died — 
Stands  out  like  one  great  verse  of  a  good  song, 
One  strain  that  sings  itself  beyond  the  rest 
For  magic  and  a  glamour  that  it  has. 

The  ways  have  scattered  for  us,  and  all  things 
Have  changed;  and  we  have  wisdom,  I  doubt  not, 
More  fit  for  the  world's  work  than  we  had  then; 
But  neither  parted  roads  nor  cent  per  cent 
May  starve  quite  out  the  child  that  lives  in  us — 
The  Child  that  is  the  Man,  the  Mystery, 
The  Phoenix  of  the  World.    So,  now  and  then, 
That  evening  of  the  day  the  Captain  died 
Returns  to  us;  and  there  comes  always  with  it 
The  storm,  the  warm  restraint,  the  fellowship, 
168 


ISAAC  AND  ARCHIBALD 

The  friendship  and  the  firelight,  and  the  fiddle. 
So  too  there  comes  a  day  that  followed  it — 
A  windy,  dreary  day  with  a  cold  white  shine, 
Which  only  gummed  the  tumbled  frozen  ruts 
That  made  us  ache.     The  road  was  hard  and  long, 
But  we  had  what  we  knew  to  comfort  us, 
And  we  had  the  large  humor  of  the  thing 
To  make  it  advantageous;  for  men  stopped 
And  eyed  us  on  that  road  from  time  to  time, 
And  on  that  road  the  children  followed  us; 
And  all  along  that  road  the  Tilbury  Band 
Blared  indiscreetly  the  Dead  March  in  Saul. 


ISAAC  AND  ARCHIBALD 

(To  Mrs.  Henry  Richards) 

ISAAC  and  Archibald  were  two  old  men. 

I  knew  them,  and  I  may  have  laughed  at  them 

A  little;  but  I  must  have  honored  them 

For  they  were  old,  and  they  were  good  to  me. 

I  do  not  think  of  either  of  them  now, 
Without  remembering,  infallibly, 
A  journey  that  I  made  one  afternoon 
With  Isaac  to  find  out  what  Archibald 
Was  doing  with  his  oats.    It  was  high  time 
Those  oats  were  cut,  said  Isaac;  and  he  feared 
That  Archibald — well,  he  could  never  feel 
Quite  sure  of  Archibald.     Accordingly 
The  good  old  man  invited  me — that  is, 
Permitted  me — to  go  along  with  him; 
And  I,  with  a  small  boy's  adhesiveness 
To  competent  old  age,  got  up  and  went. 
169 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

I  do  not  know  that  I  cared  overmuch 
For  Archibald's  or  anybody's  oats, 
But  Archibald  was  quite  another  thing, 
And  Isaac  yet  another;  and  the  world 
Was  wide,  and  there  was  gladness  everywhere. 
We  walked  together  down  the  River  Road 
With  all  the  warmth  and  wonder  of  the  land 
Around  us,  and  the  wayside  flash  of  leaves, — 
And  Isaac  said  the  day  was  glorious; 
But  somewhere  at  the  end  of  the  first  mile 
I  found  that  I  was  figuring  to  find 
How  long  those  ancient  legs  of  his  would  keep 
The  pace  that  he  had  set  for  them.    The  sun 
Was  hot,  and  I  was  ready  to  sweat  blood; 
But  Isaac,  for  aught  I  could  make  of  him, 
Was  cool  to  his  hat-band.    So  I  said  then 
Wiih  a  dry  gasp  of  affable  despair, 
^Something  about  the  scorching  days  we  have 
In  August  without  knowing  it  sometimes; 
But  Isaac  said  the  day  was  like  a  dream, 
And  praised  the  Lord,  and  talked  about  the  breeze. 
I  made  a  fair  confession  of  the  breeze, 
And  crowded  casually  on  his  thought 
The  nearness  of  a  profitable  nook 
That  I  could  see.    First  I  was  half  inclined 
To  caution  him  that  he  was  growing  old, 
But  something  that  was  not  compassion  soon 
Made  plain  the  folly  of  all  subterfuge. 
Isaac  was  old,  but  not  so  old  as  that. 

So  I  proposed,  without  an  overture, 
That  we  be  seated  in  the  shade  a  while, 
And  Isaac  made  no  murmur.    Soon  the  talk 
Was  turned  on  Archibald,  and  I  began 
To  feel  some  premonitions  of  a  kind 
170 


ISAAC  AND  ARCHIBALD 

That  only  childhood  knows;  for  the  old  man 
Had  looked  at  me  and  clutched  me  with  his  eye, 
And  asked  if  I  had  ever  noticed  things. 
I  told  him  that  I  could  not  think  of  them, 
And  I  knew  then,  by  the  frown  that  left  his  face 
Unsatisfied,  that  I  had  injured  him. 
"My  good  young  friend,"  he  said,  "you  cannot  feel 
What  I  have  seen  so  long.    You  have  the  eyes — 
Oh,  yes — but  you  have  not  the  other  things : 
The  sight  within  that  never  will  deceive, 
You  do  not  know — you  have  no  right  to  know ; 
The  twilight  warning  of  experience, 
The_singular  jdej_-^f— itmefe^ess,— 
These  are  not  yours.    But  they  have  long  been  mine, 
And  they  have  shown  me  now  for  seven  years 
Thg.t_Archibald  is  changing.    It  is  not 
So  much  that  He  should  come  to  his  last  hand, 
And  leave  the  game,  and  go  the  old  way  down; 
But  I  have  known  him  in  and  out  so  long, 
And  I  have  seen  so  much  of  good  in  him 
That  other  men  have  shared  and  have  not  seen, 
And  I  have  gone  so  far  through  thick  and  thin, 
Through  cold  and  fire  with  him,  that  now  it  brings 
To  this  old  heart  of  mine  an  ache  that  you 
Have  not  yet  lived  enough  to  know  about. 
But  even  unto  you,  and  your  boy's  faith, 
Your  freedom,  and  your  untried  confidence, 
A  time  will  come  to  find  out  what  it  means 
To  -Irrmw-^kai-^ni]  a  rft  1  n.^i  n  g .  whjrt_jpr a  s  yours, 
To  krifrw~±hat  you  are  being  left  behind; 
And  then  the  long  contempt  of  innocence — 
God  bless  you,  boy! — don't  think  the  worse  of  it 
Because  an  old  man  chatters  in  the  shade — 
Will  all  be  like  a  story  you  have  read 
In  childhood  and  remembered  for  the  pictures. 
171 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  when  the  best  friend  of  your  life  goes  down, 

When  first  you  know  in  him  the  slackening 

That  comes,  and  coming  always  tells  the  end, — 

Now  in  a  common  word  that  would  have  passed 

TJncaught  from  any  other  lips  than  his, 

Now  in  some  trivial  act  of  every  day, 

Done  as  he  might  have  done  it  all  along 

But  for  a  twinging  little  difference 

That  nips  you  like  a  squirrel's  teeth — oh,  yes, 

Then  you  will  understand  it  well  enough. 

But  oftener  it  comes  in  other  ways; 

It  comes  without  your  knowing  when  it  comes; 

You  know  that  he  is  changing,  and  you  know 

That  he  is  gnvng-     jmt  as  J  krmw  now 

Thaf^Archibald  is  going,  andtKaTt 

Ana  staying.  .  .  .  Look  at  me,  my  boy, 

And  when  the  time  shall  come  for  you  to  see 

That  I  must  follow  after  him,  try  then 

To  think  of  me,  to  bring  me  back  again, 

Just  as  I  was  to-day.     Think  of  the  place 

Where  we  are  sitting  now,  and  think  of  me — 

Think  of  old  Isaac  as  you  knew  him  then, 

When  you  set  out  with  him  in  August  once 

To  see  old  Archibald." — The  words  come  back 

Almost  as  Isaac  must  have  uttered  them, 

And  there  comes  with  them  a  dry  memory 

Of  something  in  my  throat  that  would  not  move. 

If  you  had  asked  me  then  to  tell  just  why 
I  made  so  much  of  Isaac  and  the  things 
He  said,  I  should  have  gone  far  for  an  answer; 
For  I  knew  it  was  not  sorrow  that  I  felt, 
Whatever  I  may  have  wished  it,  or  tried  then 
To  make  myself  believe.     My  mouth  was  full 
Of  words,  and  they  would  have  been  comforting 
172 


ISAAC  AND  ARCHIBALD 

To  Isaac,  spite  of  my  twelve  years,  I  think; 

But  there  was  not  in  me  the  willingness 

To  speak  them  out.    Therefore  I  watched  the  ground; 

And  I  was  wondering  what  made  the  Lord 

Create  a  thing  so  nervous  as  an  ant, 

When  Isaac,  with  commendable  unrest, 

Ordained  that  we  should  take  the  road  again — 

For  it  was  yet  three  miles  to  Archibald's, 

And  one  to  the  first  pump.     I  felt  relieved 

All  over  when  the  old  man  told  me  that; 

I  felt  that  he  had  stilled  a  fear  of  mine 

That  those  extremities  of  heat  and  cold 

Which  he  had  long  gone  through  with  Archibald 

Had  made  the  man  impervious  to  both; 

But  Isaac  had  a  desert  somewhere  in  him, 

And  at  the  pump  he  thanked  God  for  all  things 

That  He  had  put  on  earth  for  men  to  drink, 

And  he  drank  well, — so  well  that  I  proposed 

That  we  go  slowly  lest  I  learn  too  soon 

The  bitterness  of  being  left  behind, 

And  all  those  other  things.    That  was  a  joke 

To  Isaac,  and  it  pleased  him  very  much; 

And  that  pleased  me — for  I  was  twelve  years  old. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour's  walking  after  that 
The  cottage  of  old  Archibald  appeared. 
Little  and  white  and  high  on  a  smooth  round  hill 
It  stood,  with  hackmatacks  and  apple-trees 
Before  it,  and  a  big  barn-roof  beyond; 
And  over  the  place — trees,  house,  fields  and  all — 
Hovered  an  air  of  still  simplicity 
And  a  fragrance  of  old  summers — the  old  style 
That  lives  the  while  it  passes.    I  dare  say 
That  I  was  lightly  conscious  of  all  this 
When  Isaac,  of  a  sudden,  stopped  himself, 
173 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  for  the  long  first  quarter  of  a  minute 

Gazed  with  incredulous  eyes,  forgetful  quite 

Of  breezes  and  of  me  and  of  all  else 

Tinder  the  scorching  sun  but  a  smooth-cut  field, 

Faint  yellow  in  the  distance.    I  was  young, 

But  there  were  a  few  things  that  I  could  see, 

And  this  was  one  of  them. — "Well,  well!"  said  he; 

And  "Archibald  will  be  surprised,  I  think," 

Said  I.    But  all  my  childhood  subtlety 

Was  lost  on  Isaac,  for  he  strode  along 

Like  something^a»4-ef  Ilumui'  -*pagerful 

Antf^awful  on  the  wayside,  so  I  thought. 

Also  I  thought  how  good  it  was  to  be 

So  near  the  end  of  my  short-legged  endeavor 

To  keep  the  pace  with  Isaac  for  five  miles. 

Hardly  had  we  turned  in  from  the  main  road 
When  Archibald,  with  one  hand  on  his  back 
And  the  other  clutching  his  huge-headed  cane, 
Came  limping  down  to  meet  us. — "Well !  well !  well !" 
Said  he;  and  then  he  looked  at  my  red  face, 
All  streaked  with  dust  and  sweat,  and  shook  my  hand, 
And  said  it  must  have  been  a  right  smart  walk 
That  we  had  had  that  day  from  Tilbury  Town. — 
"Magnificent,"  said  Isaac;  and  he  told 
About  the  beautiful  west  wind  there  was 
Which  cooled  and  clarified  the  atmosphere. 
"You  must  have  made  it  with  your  legs,  I  guess," 
Said  Archibald;  and  Isaac  humored  him 
With  one  of  those  infrequent  smiles  of  his 
Which  he  kept  in  reserve,  apparently, 
For  Archibald  alone.    "But  why,"  said  he, 
"Should  Providence  have  cider  in  the  world 
If  not  for  such  an  afternoon  as  this?" 
And  Archibald,  with  a  soft  light  in  his  eyes, 
174 


ISAAC  AND  ARCHIBALD 

Replied  that  if  he  chose  to  go  down  cellar, 
There  he  would  find  eight  barrels — one  of  which 
Was  newly  tapped,  he  said,  and  to  his  taste 
An  honor  to  the  fruit.     Isaac  approved 
Most  heartily  of  that,  and  guided  us 
Forthwith,  as  if  his  venerable  feet 
Were  measuring  the  turf  in  his  own  door-yard, 
Straight  to  the  open  rollway.    Down  we  went, 

Oi'jtjTJL  thp  fi^ry^mWhjru^^^ 

Grateful  and  half  sepuTchraTTwhere  we  found 

The  barrels,  like  eight  potent  sentinels, 

Close  ranged  along  the  wall.    From  one  of  them 

A  bright  pine  spile  stuck  out  alluringly, 

And  on  the  black  flat  stone,  just  under  it, 

Glimmered  a  late-spilled  proof  that  Archibald 

Had  spoken  from  unfeigned  experience. 

There  was  a  fluted  antique  water-glass 

Close  by,  and  in  it,  prisoned,  or  at  rest, 

There  was  a  cricket,  of  the  brown  soft  sort 

That  feeds  on  darkness.     Isaac  turned  him  out, 

And  touched  him  with  his  thumb  to  make  him  jump, 

And  then  composedly  pulled  out  the  plug 

With  such  a  practised  hand  that  scarce  a  drop 

Did  even  touch  his  fingers.     Then  he  drank 

And  smacked  his  lips  with  a  slow  patronage 

And  looked  along  the  line  of  barrels  there 

With  a  pride  that  may  have  been  forgetfulness 

That  they  were  Archibald's  and  not  his  own. 

"I  never  twist  a  spigot  nowadays," 

He  said,  and  raised  the  glass  up  to  the  light, 

"But  I  thank  God  for  orchards."    And  that  glass 

Was  filled  repeatedly  for  the  same  hand 

Before  I  thought  it  worth  while  to  discern 

Again  that  I  was  young,  and  that  old  age, 

With  all  his  woes,  had  some  advantages. 

175 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Now,  Archibald,"  said  Isaac,  when  we  stood 

Outside  again,  "I  have  it  in  my  mind 

That  I  shall  take  a  sort  of  little  walk — 

To  stretch  my  legs  and  see  what  you  are  doing. 

You  stay  and  rest  your  back  and  tell  the  boy 

A  story:  Tell  him  all  about  the  time 

In  Stafford's  cabin  forty  years  ago, 

When  four  of  us  were  snowed  up  for  ten  days 

With  only  one  dried  haddock.    Tell  him  all 

About  it,  and  be  wary  of  your  back. 

Now  I  will  go  along." — I  looked  up  then 

At  Archibald,  and  as  I  looked  I  saw 

Just  how  his  nostrils  widened  once  or  twice 

And  then  grew  narrow.    I  can  hear  to-day 

The  way  the  old  man  chuckled  to  himself — 

Not  wJliO-Lesomely,  not  wholly^to-canvince 

Ann+Jior    n-f    TijgQmvrfh  —  pg    T    Can    hear 

The  Jone^ly  sigh  thatfollpjsved. — But  at  length 
He  said  :^*The~75fcEardiiow's  the  place  for  us; 
We  may  find  something  like  an  apple  there, 
And  we  shall  have  the  shade,  at  any  rate." 
So  there  we  went  and  there  we  laid  ourselves 
Where  the  sun  could  not  reach  us;  and  I  champed 
A  dozen  of  worm-blighted  astrakhans 
While  Archibald  said  nothing — merely  told 
The  tale  of  Stafford's  cabin,  which  was  good, 
Though  "master  chilly" — after  his  own  phrase — 
Even  for  a  day  like  that.    But  other  thoughts 
Were  moving  in  his  mind,  imperative, 
And  writhing  to  be  spoken :  I  could  see 
The  glimmer  of  them  in  a  glance  or  two, 
Cautious,  or  else  unconscious,  that  he  gave 
Over  his  shoulder:  .  .  .  "Stafford  and  the  rest — 
But  that's  an  old  song  now,  and  Archibald 
And  Isaac  are  old  men.    Remember,  boy, 
176 


ISAAC  AND  ARCHIBALD 

That  we  are  old.    Whatever  we  have  gained, 
Or  lost,  or  thrown  away,  we  are  old  men. 
You  look  before  you  and  we  look  behind, 
And  we  are  playing  life  out  in  the  shadow — 
But  that's  not  all  of  it.     Trae-sunshine  lights 
A  good^road  yet  before  us  jjLwe  look, 
And  we  are  doing  that  when  least  we  know  it ; 
For  both  of  us  are  children  of  the  sun, 
Like  you,  and  like  the  weed  there  at  your  feet. 

us,  andj/t_frighiens  us — 
^ere^s^IIght  bohiod^the_star3 
And  we  old  fellows  who  have  dared  to  live, 
We  see  it — and  we  see  the  other^things^ 
The  other  things  .  .  r .  Yes,  I  have  seen  it  come 
These  eight  years,  and  these  ten  years,  and  I  know 
Now  that  it  cannot  be  for  very  long^ 
That  Isaac  will  be  Isaac.    You  have  s&en — 
Young  as  you  are,  you  must  have  seen  the  strange 
Uncomfortable  habit  of  the  man? 
He'll  take  my  nerves  and  tie  them  in  a  knot 
Sometimes,  and  that's  not  Isaac.    I  know  that — 
And  I  know  what  it  is :  I  get  it  here 
A  little,  in  my  knees,  and  Isaac — here." 
The  old  man  shook  his  head  regretfully 
And  laid  his  knuckles  three  times  on  his  forehead. 
"That's  what  it  is:  Isaac  is  not  quite  right. 
You  see  it,  but  you  don't  know  what  it  means: 
The  thousand  little  differences — no, 
You  do  not  know  them,  and  it's  well  you  don't; 
You'll  know  them  soon  enough — God  bless  you,  boy  !- 
You'll  know  them,  but  not  all  of  them — not  all. 
So  think  of  them  as  little  as  you  can : 
There's  nothing  in  them  for  you,  or  for  me — 
But  I  am  old  and  I  must  think  of  them; 
I'm  in  the  shadow,  but  I  don't  forget 
177 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  light,  my  boy,  —  the  light  behind  the  stars. 
Eemember  that  :  remember  that  I  said  it  ; 
And  when  the  time  that  you  think  far  away 
Shall  come  for  you  to  say  it  —  say  it,  boy; 
Let  there  be  no  confusion  or  distrust 
In  you,  no  snarling  of  a  life  half  lived, 
Nor  any  cursing  over  broken  things 
That  your  complaint  has  been  the  ruin  of. 
Tjve  to  age  clearjy_andthe  lightjwill  come 


To  yjcui^andas  you  needrt.—  BuTthere,  there, 

I'm  going  itTagrrmra'sf  Isaac  says, 

And  I'll  stop  now  before  you  go  to  sleep.  — 

Only  be  sure  that  you  growl  cautiously, 

And  always  where  the  shadow  may  not  reach  you." 

Never  shall  I  forget,  long  as  I  live, 

The  quaint  thin  crack  in  Archibald's  voice, 

The  lonely  twinkle  in  his  little  eyes, 

Or  the  way  it  made  me  feel  to  be  with  him. 

I  know  I  lay  and  looked  for  a  long  time 

Down  through  the  orchard  and  across  the  road, 

Across  the  river  and  the  sun-scorched  hills 

That  ceased  in  a  blue  forest,  where  the  world 

Ceased  with  it.    Now  and  then  my  fancy  caught 

A  flying  glimpse  of  a  good  life  beyond  — 

Something  of  ships  and  sunlight,  streets  and  singing, 

Troy  falling,  and  the  ages  coming  back, 

And  ages  coming  forward:  Archibald 

And  Isaac  were  good  fellows  in  old  clothes, 

And  Agamemnon  was  a  friend  of  mine; 

Ulysses  coming  home  again  to  shoot 

With  bows  and  feathered  arrows  made  another, 

And  all  was  as  it  should  be.    I  was  young. 

So  I  lay  dreaming  of  what  things  I  would, 
Calm  and  incorrigibly  satisfied 
178 


ISAAC  AND  ARCHIBALD 

With  apples  and  romance  and  ignorance, 

And  the  still  smoke  from  Archibald's  clay  pipe. 

There  was  a  stillness  over  everything, 

As  if  the  spirit  of  heat  had  laid  its  hand 

Upon  the  world  and  hushed  it;  and  I  felt 

Within  the  mightiness  of  the  white  sun 

That  smote  the  land  around  us  and  wrought  out 

A  fragrance  from  the  trees,  ~a_jvitaj_warmth 


^__  ^ 

And  a  glory  for  the  world  beyond  the  forest. 


Isaac  and  ArchibaldjJJie  burning.  .hugh, 
l?SeToaas__ajid_thwaIIsf_Jericho, 


beautifully  fused^  and  all  went  well 

began  to  fret  for  Isaac 
And  said  it  was  a  master  day  for  sunstroke. 
That  was  enough  to  make  a  mummy  smile, 
I  thought;  and  I  remained  hilarious, 
In  face  of  all  precedence  and  respect, 
Till  Isaac  (who  had  come  to  us  unheard) 
Found  he  had  no  tobacco,  looked  at  me 
Peculiarly,  and  asked  of  Archibald 
What  ailed  the  boy  to  make  him  chirrup  so. 
From  that  he  told  us  what  a  blessed  world 
The  Lord  had  given  us.  —  "But,  Archibald," 
He  added,  with  a  sweet  severity 
That  made  me  think  of  peach-skins  and  goose-flesh, 
"I'm  half  afraid  you  cut  those  oats  of  yours 
A  day  or  two  before  they  were  well  set." 
"They  were  set  well  enough,"  said  Archibald,  — 
And  I  remarked  the  process  of  his  nose 
Before  the  words  came  out.     "But  never  mind 
Your  neighbor's  oats  :  you  stay  here  in  the  shade 
And  rest  yourself  while  I  go  find  the  cards. 
We'll  have  a  little  game  of  seven^up 
179 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  let  the  boy  keep    count." — "We'll  have  the  game, 
Assuredly,"  said  Isaac;  "and  I  think 
That  I  will  have  a  drop  of  cider,  also." 

They  marched  away  together  towards  the  house 

And  left  me  to  my  childish  ruminations 

Upon  the  ways  of  men.    I  followed  them 

Down  cellar  with  my  fancy,  and  then  left  them 

For  a  fairer  vision  of  all  things  at  once 

That  was  anon  to  be  destroyed  again 

By  the  sound  of  voices  and  of  heavy  feet — 

One  of  the  sounds  of  life  that  I  remember, 

Though  I  forget  so  many  that  rang  first 

As  if  they  were  thrown  down  to  me  from  Sinai. 

So  I  remember,  even  to  this  day, 
Just  how  they  sounded,  how  they  placed  themselves, 
And  how  the  game  went  on  while  I  made  marks 
And  crossed  them  out,  and  meanwhile  made  some  Trojans. 
Likewise  I  made  Ulysses,  after  Isaac, 
And  a  little  after  Flaxman.    Archibald 
Was  injured  when  he  found  himself  left  out, 
But  he  had  no  heroics,  and  I  said  so : 
I  told  him  that  his  white  beard  was  too  long 
And  too  straight  down  to  be  like  things  in  Homer. 
"Quite  so,"  said  Isaac. — <rLow,"  said  Archibald; 
And  he  threw  down  a  deuce  with  a  deep  grin 
That  showed  his  yellow  teeth  and  made  me  happy. 
So  they  played  on  till  a  bell  rang  from  the  door, 
And  Archibald  said,  "Supper." — After  that 
The  old  men  smoked  while  I  sat  watching  them 
And  wondered  with  all  comfort  what  might  come 
To  me,  and  what  might  never  come  to  me; 
And  when  the  time  came  for  the  long  walk  home 
With  Isaac  in  the  twilight,  I  could  see 
180 


THE  RETURN  OF  MORGAN  AND  FINGAL 

The  forest  and  the  sunset  and  the  sky-line, 

No  matter  where  it  was  that  I  was  looking: 

The  flame  beyond  the  boundary,  the  music, 

The  foam  and  the  white  ships,  and  two  old  men 

Were  things  that  would  not  leave  me. — And  that  night 

There  came  to  me  a  dream — a  shining  one, 

Witk4wo  old-  angels- in-it.    They  had  wings, 

And  they  "were  sitting  where  a  silver  light 

Suffused  them,  face  to  face.    The  wings  of  one 

Began  to  palpitate  as  I  approached, 

But  I  was  yet  unseen  when  a  dry  voice 

Cried  thinly,  with  unpatronizing  triumph, 

"I've  got  you,  Isaac;  high,  low,  jack,  and  the  game." 

Isaac  and  Archibald  have  gone  their  way 
To  the  silence  of  the  loved  and  well-forgotten. 
I  knew  them,  and  I  may  have  laughed  at  them; 
But  there's  a  laughing  that  has  honor  in  it, 
And  I  have  no  regret  for  light  words  now. 
Rather  I  think  sometimes  they  may  have  made 
Their  sport  of  me; — but  they  would  not  do  that, 
They  were  too  old  for  that.    They  were  old  men, 
And  I  may  laugh  at  them  because  I  knew  them. 


THE   RETURN   OF  MORGAN  AND   FINGAL 

AND  there  we  were  together  again — 

Together  again,  we  three: 
Morgan,  Fingal,  fiddle,  and  all, 

They  had  come  for  the  night  with  me. 

The  spirit  of  joy  was  in  Morgan's  wrist, 
There  were  songs  in  Fingal's  throat ; 

And  secure  outside,  for  the  spray  to  drench, 
Was  a  tossed  and  empty  boat. 
181 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  there  were  the  pipes,  and  there  was  the  punch, 

And  somewhere  were  twelve  years ; 
So  it  came,  in  the  manner  of  things  unsought, 

That  a  quick  knock  vexed  our  ears. 

The  night  wind  hovered  and  shrieked  and  snarled, 

And  I  heard  Fingal  swear ; 
Then  I  opened  the  door — but  I  found  no  more 

Than  a  chalk-skinned  woman  there. 

I  looked,  and  at  last,  "What  is  it?"  I  said— 

"What  is  it  that  we  can  do  ?" 
But  never  a  word  could  I  get  from  her 

But  "You — you  three — it  is  youl" 

Now  the  sense  of  a  crazy  speech  like  that 

Was  more  than  a  man  could  make; 
So  I  said,  "But  we — we  are  what,  we  three?" 

And  I  saw  the  creature  shake. 

"Be  quick !"  she  cried,  "for  I  left  her  dead — 

And  I  was  afraid  to  come; 
But  you,  you  three — God  made  it  be — 

Will  ferry  the  dead  girl  home. 

"Be  quick!  be  quick! — but  listen  to  that 

Who  is  that  makes  it  ? — hark !" 
But  I  heard  no  more  than  a  knocking  splash 

And  a  wind  that  shook  the  dark. 

"It  is  only  the  wind  that  blows,"  I  said, 

"And  the  boat  that  rocks  outside." 
And  I  watched  her  there,  and  I  pitied  her  there — 

"Be  quick !  be  quick !"  she  cried. 
182 


THE  RETURN  OF  MORGAN  AND  FINGAL 

She  cried  so  loud  that  her  voice  went  in 

To  find  where  my  two  friends  were; 
So  Morgan  came,  and  Fingal  came, 

And  out  we  went  with  her. 

'T  was  a  lonely  way  for  a  man  to  take 

And  a  fearsome  way  for  three; 
And  over  the  water,  and  all  day  long, 

They  had  come  for  the  night  with  me. 

But  the  girl  was  dead,  as  the  woman  had  said, 

And  the  best  we  could  see  to  do 
Was  to  lay  her  aboard.    The  north  wind  roared, 

And  into  the  night  we  flew. 

Four  of  us  living  and  one  for  a  ghost, 

Furrowing  crest  and  swell, 
Through  the  surge  and  the  dark,  for  that  faint  far  spark, 

We  ploughed  with  Azrael. 

Three  of  us  ruffled  and  one  gone  mad, 

Crashing  to  south  we  went; 
And  three  of  us  there  were  too  spattered  to  care 

What  this  late  sailing  meant. 

So  down  we  steered  and  along  we  tore 
Through  the  flash  of  the  midnight  foam : 

Silent  enough  to  be  ghosts  on  guard. 
We  ferried  the  dead  girl  home. 

We  ferried  her  down  to  the  voiceless  wharf, 

And  we  carried  her  up  to  the  light; 
And  we  left  the  two  to  the  father  there, 

Who  counted  the  coals  that  night. 
183 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Then  back  we  steered  through  the  foam  again, 
But  our  thoughts  were  fast  and  few; 

And  all  we  did  was  to  crowd  the  surge 
And  to  measure  the  life  we  knew; — 

Till  at  last  we  came  where  a  dancing  gleam 

Skipped  out  to  us,  we  three, — 
And  the  dark  wet  mooring  pointed  home 

Like  a  finger  from  the  sea. 

Then  out  we  pushed  the  teetering  skiff 

And  in  we  drew  to  the  stairs; 
And  up  we  went,  each  man  content 

With  a  life  that  fed  no  cares. 

Fingers  were  cold  and  feet  were  cold, 

And  the  tide  was  cold  and  rough ; 
But  the  light  was  warm,  and  the  room  was  warm, 

And  the  world  was  good  enough. 

And  there  were  the  pipes,  and  there  was  the  punch, 

More  shrewd  than  Satan's  tears : 
Fingal  had  fashioned  it,  all  by  himself, 

With  a  craft  that  comes  of  years. 

And  there  we  were  together  again — 

Together  again,  we  three: 
Morgan,  Fingal,  fiddle,  and  all, 

They  were  there  for  the  night  with  me. 


AUNT  IMOGEN 

AUNT  IMOGEN  was  coming,  and  therefore 
The  children — Jane,  Sylvester,  and  Young  George — 
Were  eyes  and  ears;  for  there  was  only  one 
Aunt  Imogen  to  them  in  the  whole  world, 
184 


AUNT  IMOGEN 

And  she  was  in  it  only  for  four  weeks 

In  fifty-two.    But  those  great  bites  of  time 

Made  all  September  a  Queen's  Festival; 

And  they  would  strive,  informally,  to  make 

The  most  of  them. — The  mother  understood, 

And  wisely  stepped  away.    Aunt  Imogen 

Was  there  for  only  one-  month  in  the  year, 

While  she,  the  mother, — she  was  always  there; 

And  that  was  what  made  all  the  difference. 

She  knew  it  must  be  so,  for  Jane  had  once 

Expounded  it  to  her  so  learnedly 

That  she  had  looked  away  from  the  -child's  eyej3 

And  thought ;  and  she  had  thought  of  many  things. 

There  was  a  demonstration  every  time 
Aunt  Imogen  appeared,  and  there  was  more 
Than  one  this  time.    And  she  was  at.  a  loss 
Just  how  to  name  the  meaning  of  it  all: 
It  puzzled  her  to  think  that  she  could  be 
So  much  to  any  crazy  thing  alive — 
Even  to  her— sistey^a  lilll e~"sf?vages 
Who  knew  no  better  than  to  be  themselves; 
Eut  in  the  midst  of  her  .glad,  wonderment 
She  found  herself  besieged  and  overcome 
By  two  tight  arms  and  one  tumultuous  head, 
And  therewith  half  bewildered  and  half  pained 
Ey  the  joy  she  felt  and  by  the  sudden  love 
That  proved  itself  in  childhood's  honest  noise. 
Jane,  by  the  wings  of  sex,  had  reached  her  first; 
And  while  she  strangled  her,  approvingly, 
Sylvester  thumped  his  drum  and  Young  George  howled. 
But  finally,  when  all  was  rectified, 
And  she  had  stilled  the  clamor  of  Young  George 
By  giving  him  a  long  ride  on  her  shoulders, 
They  went  together  into  the  old  room 
185 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  looked  across  the  fields;  and  Imogen 

Gazed  out  with  a  girl's  gladness  in  her  eyes, 

Happy  to  know  that  she-  was  back  once  more 

Where  there  were  those  who  knew  her,  and  at  last 

Had  gloriously  got  away  again 

From  cahs  and  clattered  asphalt  for  a  "while; 

And  there  she  sat  and  talked  ..rind  looked-  and  laughed 

And  made  the  mother  and  the  children  laugh. 

Aunt  Imogen  made  everybody  laugh. 


There  was  the  feminine  paradox  —  that  she 
Who  had  so  little  sunshine  for  herself 
Should  have  so  much  for  others.    How  it  was. 
That  she  could  make,  and  feel  for  making  it, 
So  much  of  joy  for  them,  and  all  along 
Be  covering,  like  a  scar,  and  while  she  smiled, 
That  hungering  incompleteness  and  .regret  — 
That  passionate  ache  for  something  of  her  own, 
For  something  of  herself  —  she  never  knew. 
She  knew  that  she  could  seem  to  make  them  all 
Believe  there  was  no  other  part  of  her 
Than  her  persistent  happiness  ;  but  the  why 
And  how  she  did  not  know.    Still  none  of  them 
Could  have  a  thought  that  she  was  living  down  — 
Almost  as  if  regret  were  criminal, 
So  proud  it  was  and  yet  so  profitless  — 
The  penance  of  a  dream,  and  that  was  good. 
Her  sister  Jane  —  the  mother  of  little  Jane, 
Sylvester,  and  Young  George  —  might  make  herself 
Believe  she  knew,  for  she  —  well,  she  was  Jane. 

Young  George,  however,  did  not  yield  himself 
To  nourish  the  false  hunger  of  ^a  ghost 
That  made  no  good  return.    He  saw  too  much: 
The  accumulated  wisdom  of  his  years 
186 


AUNT  IMOGEN 

Ilad  so  conclusively  made  plain  to  him 
The  permanent  profusion  of  a  world 
Where  everybody  might  have  everything 
To  do,  and  almost  everything  to  eat, 
That  he  was  jubilantly  satisfied 
And  all  unthwarted  by  adversity. 

Young  George  knew  things.     The  world,  he  had  found  out, 
Was  a  good  place,  and  life  was  a  good  game — 
Particularly  when  Aunt  Imogen 
Was  in  it.    And  one  day  it  came  to  pass — 
One  rainy  day  when  she  was  holding  him 
And  rocking  him — that  he,  in  his  own  right, 
Took  it  upon  himself  to  tell  her  so; 
And  something  in  his  way  of  telling  it — 
The  languager  or  theJane,  or  something  else- 
Gripped  like  insidie-as-fingers  on  her  throat, 
And  then  we'rif  foraging"  as  if  to  make 
A  plaything  of  her  heart.     B*ich  undeserved 
Anj__ujisophisticat£c[_confidence 
Went  mercilessly  homeT"and  had  she  sat 
Before  arfeefctftg-glass,  the  deeps  of  it 
Could  not  have  shown  more  clearly  to  her  then 
Than  one  thought-mirrored  little  glimpse  had  shown, 
The  pang  that  wrenched  her  face  and  filled  her  eyes 
With  anguish  and  intolerable  mist. 
The  blow  that  she  had  vaguely  thrust  aside 
Like  fright  so  many  times  had  found  her  now : 
Clean-thrust  and  final  it  had  come  to  her 
From  a  child's  lips  at  last,  as  it  had  come 
Never  before,  and  as  it  might  be  felt 
Never  again.     Some  grief,  like  some  delight, 
Stings  hard  but  once :  to  custom  after  that 
The  rapture  or  the  pain  submits  itself, 
And  we  are  wiser  than  we  were  before. 
And  Imogen  was  wiser;  though  at  first 

187 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Her  dream-defeating  wisdom  was  indeed 

A  thankless  heritage:  there  was  no  sweet, 

No  bitter  now;  nor  was  there  anything 

To  make  a  daily  meaning  for  her  life — 

Till  truth,  like  Harlequin,  leapt  out  somehow 

From  ambush  and  threw  sudden  savor  to  it — 

But  the  blank  taste  of  time.    There  were  no  dreams, 

No  phantoms  in  her  future  any  more: 

One  clinching  revelation  of  what  was 

One  by-flash  of  irrevocable  chance, 

Had  acridly  but  honestly  foretold 

The  mystical  fulfilment  of  a  life 

That  might  have  once  .  .  .  But  that  was  all  gone  by: 

There  was  no  need  of  reaching  back  for  that : 

The  triumph  was  not  hers :  there  was  no  love 

Save  borrowed  love:  there  was  no  might  have  been. 

But  there  was  yet  Young  George — and  he  had  gone 
Conveniently  to  sleep,  like  a  good  boy; 
And  there  was  yet  Sylvester  with  his  drum, 
And  there  was  frowzle-headed  little  Jane; 
And  there  was  Jane  the  sister,  and  the  mother, — 
Her  sister,  and  the  mother  of  them  all. 
They  were  not  hers,  not  even  one  of  them : 
She  was  not  born  to  be  so  much  as  that, 
For  she  was  born  to  be  Aunt  Imogen. 
Now  she  could  see  the  truth  and  look  at  it; 
Now  she  could  make  stars  out  where  once  had  palled 
A  future's  emptiness;  now  she  could  share 
With  others — ah,  the  others! — to  the  end 
The  largess  of  a  woman  who  could  smile; 
Now  it  was  hers  to  dance  the  folly  down, 
And  all  the  murmuring;  now  it  was  hers 
To  be  Aunt  Imogen. — So,  when  Young  George 
Woke  up  and  blinked  at  her  with  his  big  eyes, 
188 


THE  KLONDIKE 

And  smiled  to  see  the  way  she  blinked  at  him, 
'T  was  only  in  old  concord  with  the  stars 
That  she  took  hold  of  him  and  held  him  close, 
Close  to  herself,  and  crushed  him  till  he  laughed. 


THE  KLONDIKE 

NEVER  mind  the  day  we  left,  or  the  day  the  women  clung  to  us ; 
All  we  need  now  is  the  last  way  they  looked  at  us. 
Never  mind  the  twelve  men  there  amid  the  cheering — 
Twelve  men  or  one  man,  't  will  soon  be  all  the  same; 
For  this  is  what  we  know:  we  are  five  men  together, 
Five  left  o'  twelve  men  to  find  the  golden  river. 

Far  we  came  to  find  it  out,  but  the  place  was  here  for  all  of  us; 
Far,  far  we  came,  and  here  we  have  the  last  of  us. 
We  that  were  the  front  men,  we  that  would  be  early, 
We  that  had  the  faith,  and  the  triumph  in  our  eyes: 
We  that  had  the  wrong  road,  twelve  men  together, — 
Singing  when  the  devil  sang  to  find  the  golden  river. 

Say  the  gleam  was  not  for  us,  but  never  say  we  doubted  it; 

Say  the  wrong  road  was  right  before  we  followed  it. 

We  that  were  the  front  men,  fit  for  all  forage, — 

Say  that  while  we  dwindle  we  are  front  men  still ; 

For  this  is  what  we  know  to-night :  we're  starving  here  together — 

Starving  on  the  wrong  road  to  find  the  golden  river. 

Wrong,  we  say,  but  wait  a  little:  hear  him  in  the  corner  there; 
He  knows  more  than  we,  and  he'll  tell  us  if  we  listen  there — 
He  that  fought  the  snow-sleep  less  than  all  the  others 
Stays  awhile  yet,  and  he  knows  where  he  stays: 
Foot  and  hand  a  frozen  clout,  brain  a  freezing  feather, 
Still  he's  here  to  talk  with  us  and  to  the  golden  river. 

189 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Flow,"  lie  says,  "and  flow  along,  but  you  cannot  flow  away 

from  us; 

All  the  world's  ice  will  never  keep  you  far  from  us; 
Every  man  that  heeds  your  call  takes  the  way  that  leads  him — 
The  one  way  that's  his  way,  and  lives  his  own  life : 
Starve  or  laugh,  the  game  goes  on,  and  on  goes  the  river ; 
Gold  or  no,  they  go  their  way — twelve  men  together. 

"Twelve,"  he  says,  "who  sold  their  shame  for  a  lure  you  call  too 

fair  for  them — 

You  that  laugh  and  flow  to  the  same  word  that  urges  them : 
Twelve  who  left  the  old  town  shining  in  the  sunset, 
Left  the  weary  street  and  the  small  safe  days : 
Twelve  who  knew  but  one  way  out,  wide  the  way  or  narrow : 
Twelve  who  took  the  frozen  chance  and  laid  their  lives  on  yellow. 

"Flow  by  night  and  flow  by  day,  nor  ever  once  be  seen  by  them ; 
Flow,  freeze,  and  flow,  till  time  shall  hide  the  bones  of  them ; 
Laugh  and  wash  their  names  away,  leave  them  all  forgotten, 
Leave  the  old  town  to  crumble  where  it  sleeps; 
Leave  it  there  as  they  have  left  it,  shining  in  the  valley, — 
Leave  the  town  to  crumble  down  and  let  the  women  marry. 

"Twelve  of  us  or  five,"  he  says,  "we  know  the  night  is  on  us  now : 
Five  while  we  last,  and  we  may  as  well  be  thinking  now : 
Thinking  each  his  own  thought,  knowing,  when  the  light  comes, 
Five  left  or  none  left,  the  game  will  not  be  lost. 
Crouch  or  sleep,  we  go  the  way,  the  last  way  together : 
Five  or  none,  the  game  goes  on,  and  on  goes  the  river. 

"For  after  all  that  we  have  done  and  all  that  we  have  failed 

to  do, 

Life  will  be  life  and  a  world  will  have  its  work  to  do : 
Every  man  who  follows  us  will  heed  in  his  own  fashion 
The  calling  and  the  warning  and  the  friends  who  do  not  know: 

190 


THE  GROWTH  OF  "LORRAINE" 

Each  will  hold  an  icy  knife  to  punish  his  heart's  lover, 
And  each  will  go  the  frozen  way  to  find  the  golden  river." 

There  you  hear  him,  all  he  says,  and  the  last  we'll  ever  get  from 

him. 

Now  he  wants  to  sleep,  and  that  will  be  the  best  for  him. 
Let  him  have  his  own  way — no,  you  needn't  shake  him — 
Your  own  turn  will  come,  so  let  the  man  sleep. 
For  this  is  what  we  know:  we  are  stalled  here  together — 
Hands  and  feet  and  hearts  of  us,  to  find  the  golden  river. 

And  there's  a  quicker  way  than  sleep?  .  .  .  Never  mind  the 

looks  of  him : 

All  he  needs  now  is  a  finger  on  the  eyes  of  him. 
You  there  on  the  left  hand,  reach  a  little  over — 
Shut  the  stars  away,  or  he'll  see  them  all  night: 
He'll  see  them  all  night  and  he'll  see  them  all  to-morrow, 
Crawling  down  the  frozen  sky,  cold  and  hard  and  yellow. 

Won't  you  move  an  inch  or  two — to  keep  the  stars  away  from 

him? 

— No,  he  won't  move,  and  there's  no  need  of  asking  him. 
Never  mind  the  twelve  men,  never  mind  the  women; 
Three  while  we  last,  we'll  let  them  all  go ; 

And  we'll  hold  our  thoughts  north  while  we  starve  here  together, 
Looking  each  his  own  way  to  find  the  golden  river. 


THE  GROWTH  OF  "LORRAINE" 

I 

WHILE  I  stood  listening,  discreetly  dumb, 
Lorraine  was  having  the  last  word  with  me: 
"I  know,"  she  said,  "I  know  it,  but  you  see 
Some  creatures  are  born  fortunate,  and  some 
191 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Are  born  to  be  found  out  and  overcome, — 
Born  to  be  slaves,  to  let  the  rest  go  free; 
And  if  I'm  one  of  them  (and  I  must  be) 
You  may  as  well  forget  me  and  go  home. 

"You  tell  me  not  to  say  these  things,  I  know, 

But  I  should  never  try  to  be  content: 

I've  gone  too  far;  the  life  would  be  too  slow. 

Some  could  have  done  it — some  girls  have  the  stuff; 

But  I  can't  do  it :  I  don't  know  enough. 

I'm  going  to  the  devil." — And  she  went. 

n 

I  DID  not  half  believe  her  when  she  said 
That  I  should  never  hear  from  her  again; 
Nor  when  I  found  a  letter  from  Lorraine, 
Was  I  surprised  or  grieved  at  what  I  read : 
"Dear  friend,  when  you  find  this,  I  shall  be  dead. 
You  are  too  far  away  to  make  me  stop. 
They  say  that  one  drop — think  of  it,  one  drop ! — 
Will  be  enough, — but  I'll  take  five  instead. 

"You  do  not  frown  because  I  call  you  friend, 
For  I  would  have  you  glad  that  I  still  keep 
Your  memory,  and  even  at  the  end — 
Impenitent,  sick,  shattered — cannot  curse 
The  love  that  flings,  for  better  or  for  worse, 
This  worn-out,  cast-out  flesh  of  mine  to  sleep." 

THE  SAGE 

FOREGUARDED  and  unfevered  and  serene, 
Back  to  the  perilous  gates  of  Truth  he  went — 
Back  to  fierce  wisdom  and  the  Orient, 
To  the  Dawn  that  is,  that  shall  be,  and  has  been : 
192 


ERASMUS 

Previsioned  of  the  madness  and  the  mean, 
He  stood  where  Asia,  crowned  with  ravishment, 
The  curtain  of  Love's  inner  shrine  had  rent, 
And  after  had  gone  scarred  by  the  Unseen. 

There  at  his  touch  there  was  a  treasure  chest, 

And  in  it  was  a  gleam,  but  not  of  gold; 

And  on  it,  like  a  flame,  these  words  were  scrolled : 

"I  keep  the  mintage  of  Eternity. 

Who  comes  to  take  one  coin  may  take  the  rest, 

And  all  may  come — but  not  without  the  key." 


ERASMUS 

WHEN  he  protested,  not  too  solemnly, 

That  for  a  world's  achieving  maintenance 

The  crust  of  overdone  divinity 

Lacked  aliment,  they  called  it  recreance; 

And  when  he  chose  through  his  own  glass  to  scan 

Sick  Europe,  and  reduced,  unyieldingly, 

The  monk  within  the  cassock  to  the  man 

Within  the  monk,  they  called  it  heresy. 

And  when  he  made  so  perilously  bold 

As  to  be  scattered  forth  in  black  and  white, 

Good  fathers  looked  askance  at  him  and  rolled 

Their  inward  eyes  in  anguish  and  affright ; 

There  were  some  of  them  did  shake  at  what  was  told, 

And  they  shook  best  who  knew  that  he  was  right. 


193 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  WIFE 

I — THE  EXPLANATION 

"You  thought  we  knew,"  she  said,  "but  we  were  wrong. 

This  we  can  say,  the  rest  we  do  not  say; 

Nor  do  I  let  you  throw  yourself  away 

Because  you  love  me.    Let  us  both  be  strong, 

And  we  shall  find  in  sorrow,  before  long, 

Only  the  price  Love  ruled  that  we  should  pay: 

The  dark  is  at  the  end  of  every  day, 

And  silence  is  the  end  of  every  song. 

"You  ask  me  for  one  proof  that  I  speak  right, 

But  I  can  answer  only  what  I  know; 

You  look  for  just  one  lie  to  make  black  white, 

But  I  can  tell  you  only  what  is  true — 

God  never  made  me  for  the  wife  of  you. 

This  we  can  say, — believe  me !  .  .  .  Tell  me  so  1" 

II — THE  ANNIVERSARY 

"GiVE  me  the  truth,  whatever  it  may  be. 

You  thought  we  knew,  now  tell  me  what  you  miss: 

You  are  the  one  to  tell  me  what  it  is — 

You  are  a  man,  and  you  have  married  me. 

What  is  it  worth  to-night  that  you  can  see 

More  marriage  in  the  dream  of  one  dead  kiss 

Than  in  a  thousand  years  of  life  like  this? 

Passion  has  turned  the  lock,  Pride  keeps  the  key. 

"Whatever  I  have  said  or  left  unsaid, 
Whatever  I  have  done  or  left  undone, — 
Tell  me.    Tell  me  the  truth.  .  .  .  Are  you  afraid? 
Do  you  think  that  Love  was  ever  fed  with  lies 
But  hunger  lived  thereafter  in  his  eyes? 
Do  you  ask  me  to  take  moonlight  for  the  sun  1" 
194 


THE  BOOK  OF  ANNANDALE 


Ipft  fll 


George  Annandale  said  something  to  his  friends — 
A.  word  or  two,  brusque,  but  yet  smoothed  enough^ 
To  suit  their  funeral  gaze — and  went  upstairs; 
And  there,  in  the  one  room  that  he  could  call 
His  own,  he  found  a  sort  of  meaningless 
Annoyance  in  the  mute  familiar  things 
That  filled  it;  for  the  grate's  monotonous  gleam 
Was  not  the  gleam  that  he  had  known  before,    ^ 
The  books  were  not  the  books  that  used  to  be, 
The  place  was  not  the  place.    There  was  a  lack 
Of  something;  and  the  certitude  of  death 
Itself,  as  with  a  furtive  questioning, 
Hovered,  and  he  co.ukLnot  yet  understand. 
He  knew  that  she  was  gone — there  was  no  need 
Of  any  argued  proof  to  tell  him  that, 
For  they  had  buried  her  that  afternoon, 
Under  the  leaves  and  snow;  and  still  there  was 
A  doubt,  a  pitiless-jdo«btrarT>lunging  doubt, 
That  struck  him,  and  upstartled  when  it  struck, 
The  vision,  the  old  thought  in  him.    There  was 
A  lack,  and  one  that  wrenched  him;  but  it  was 
Not  that — not  that.    There  was  a  present  sense 
Of  something  indeterminably  near — 
The  soul-clutch  of  a  prescient  emptiness 
That  would  not  be  foreboding.     And  if  not, 
What  then? — or  was  it  anything  at  all? 
Yes,  it  was  something — it  was  everything — 
But  what  was  everything?  or  anythirg? 
195 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Tired  of  time,  bewildered,  he  sat  down; 
in  his  chair  he  kept  on  wondering 


\\|j     That  he  should  feel  so  desolately  strange 
\       And  yet — for  all  he  knew  that  he  had  lost 
/\^)       More  of  the  worldjthan_niflat-mGn  cvog-win — 
,.       Str  curiously  calm.    And  he  was  left 
£\      Unanswered  and  unsatisfied:  there  came 

No  clearer  meaning  to  him  than  had  come 

Before;  the  old  abstraction  was  the  best 

That  he  could  find,  the  farthest  he  could  go; 

To  that  was  no  beginning  and  no  end — 

No  end  that  he  could  reach.    So-. he  must 

Attainable  in  him,  would  he  divine 

•"-^^ 

The  meanhig-of  the  dream  and  of  the  words 
That  he  had  written,  without  knowing  why, 
On  sheets  that  he  had  bound  up  like  a  book 
And  covered  with  red  leather.     There  it  was — 
There  in  his  desk,  the  record  he  had  made, 
The  spiritual  plaything  of  his  life: 
There  were  the  words  no  eyes  had  ever  seen 
Save  his;  there  were  the  words  that  were  not  made 
For  glory  or  for  gold.    The  pretty  wife 
Whom  he  had  loved  and  lost  had  not  so  much 
As  heard  of  them.    They  were  not  made  for  her. 
His  love  had  been  so  much  the  life  of  her, 
And  hers  had  been  so  much  the  life  of  him, 
That  any  wayward  phrasing  on  his  part 
Would  have  had  no  moment.     Neither  had  lived  enough 
To  know  the  book,  albeit  one  of  them 
Had  grown  enough  to  write  it.    There  it  was, 
However,  though  he'  knew  not  why  it  was: 
There  was  the  book,  but  it  was  not  for  her, 
For  she  was  dead.    And  yet,  there  was  the  book. 

196 


THE  BOOK  OF  ANNANDALE 

Thus  would  his  fancy  circle  out  and  out, 

And  out  and  in  again,  till  he  would  make 

As  if  with  a  large  freedom  to  crush  down 

Those  under-thoughts.    He  covered  with  his  hands  - 

His  tired  eyes,  and  waited :  he  could  hear —  ^(^^ 

Or  partly  feel  and  hear,  mechanically — 

The  sound  of  talk,  with  now  and  then  the  steps 

And  skirts  of  some  one  scudding  on  the  stairs, 

Forgetful  of  the  nerveless  funeral  feet 

That  she  had  brought  with  her;  and  more  than  once 

There  came  to  him  a  call  as  of  a  voice — 

A_voice  of  love  returniag-^fcutrTtot-ieys. 

Whose  he  knew  not,  nor  dreamed ;  nor  did  he  know, 

Nor  did  he  dream,  in  his  blurred  loneliness 

Of  thought,  what  all  the  rest  might  think  of  him. 

For  it  had  come  at  last,  and  she  was  gone 
WitlndLtlia. 


And  she  was  never  coming  back  again. 
Yes,  they  had  buried  her  that  afternoon, 
Tinder  the  frozen  leaves  and  the  cold  earth, 
Under  the  leaves  and  snow.     The  flickering  week, 
The  sharp  and  certain  day,  and  the  long  drowse 
Were  over,  and  the  man  was  left  alone. 
He  knew  the  loss — therefore  it  puzzled  him 
That  he  should  sit  so  long  there  as  he  did, 
And  bring  the  whole  thing  back — the  love,  the  trust, 
The  pallor,  the  poor  face,  and  the  faint  way 
She  last  had  looked  at  him — and  yet  not  weep, 
Or  even  choose  to  look  about  the  room 
To  see  how  sad  it  was ;  and  once  or  twice 
He  winked  and  pinched  his  eyes  against  the  flame 
And  hoped  there  might  be  tears.     But  hope  was  all, 
And  all  to  him  was  nothing:  he_  was  lost. 
And  yet  he  was  not  lost:  he  was  astray — 

"197 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Out  of  his  life  and  in  another  life  ; 

And  in  the  stillness  of  this  other  life 

He  wondered  and  he  drowsed.    He  wondered  when 

It  was,  and  wondered  if  it  ever  was 

On  earth  that  he  had  known  the  other  face  — 

The  searching  face,  the  eloquent,  strange  face  — 

That  with  a  sightless  beauty  looked  at  him 

And  with  a  speechless  promise  uttered  words 

That  were  not.  the-  wui'ld'y 


Tha^Jio  hnd  Irnowj^before.    What  was  it,  then? 
What  was  it  held  him  —  fascinated  him? 
Why  should  he  not  be  human?    He  could  sigh, 
And  he  could  even  groan,  —  but  what  of  that? 

Was  he  glad? 


Yet  how  could  he  be  glad,  or  reconciled, 
Or  anything  but  wretched  and  undone? 
How  could  he  be  so  frigid  and  inert  — 
So  like  a  man  with  water  in  his  veins 
Where  blood  had  been  a  little  while  before  ? 
How  could  he  sit  shut  in  there  like  a  snail  ? 
What  ailed  him  ?    What  was  on  him  ?    Was  he  glad  ? 
Over  and  over  again  the  question  came, 
Unanswered  and  unchanged,  —  and  there  he  was. 
But  what  in  heaven's  name  did  it  all  mean? 
If  he  had  lived  as  other  men  had  lived, 
If  home  had  ever  shown  itself  to  be 
The  counterfeit  that  others  had  called  home, 
Then^o"Tliis  undivined  resource  of  his 
There  were  some  key  ;  but  now  .  .  .  Philosophy  ? 
Yes,  he  could  reason  in  a  kind  of  way 
That  he  was  glad  for  Miriam's  release  — 
Much  as  he  might  be  glad  to  see  his  friends 
Laid  out  around  him  with  their  grave-clothes  on, 
And  this  life  done  for  them  ;  but  something  else 

198 


THE  BOOK  OF  ANNANDALE 

There  was  that  foundered  reason,  overwhelmed  it, 

And  with  a  chilled,  intuitive  rebuff 

Beat  back  the  self-cajoling  sophistries 

That  his  half-tutored  thought  would  half-project. 

What  was  it,  then  ?    Had  he  become  transformed 

And  hardened  through  long  watches  and  long  grief 

Into  a  loveless,  feelingless  dead  thing 

That  brooded  like  a  man,  breathed  like  a  man, — 

Did  everything  but  ache?    And  was  a  day 

To  come  some  time  when  feeling  should  return 

Forever  to  drive--ttflL4hat^)lfeer  face — 

The  lineless,  indistinguishable  face — 

That  once  had  thrilled  itself  between  his  own 

And  hers  there  on  the  pillow, — and  again 

Between  him  and  the  coffin-lid  had  flashed 

Like  f  atebefore  it  closed, — and  at  the  last 

** — .. "  •* — — —  ^,  _  i    ^ .         7 

Had  come,  as  it  should  seem,  to  stay  with  him, 
Bidden  or  not?    He  were  a  stranger  then, 
Foredrowsed  awhile  by  some  deceiving  draught 
Of  poppied  anguish,  to  the  covert  grief 
And  the  stark  loneliness  that  waited  him, 
And  for  the  time  were  cursedly  endowed 
With  a  dull  trust  that  shammed  indifference 
To  Knowing  there  would  be  no  touch  again 
Of  her  small  hand  on  his,  no  silencing 
Of  her  quick  lips  on  his,  no  feminine 
Completeness  and  love-fragrance  in  the  house, 
No  sound  of  some  one  singing  any  more, 
No  smoothing  of  slow  fingers  on  his  hair, 
No  shimmer  of  pink  slippers  on  brown  tiles. 

But  there  was  nothing,  nothing,  in  all  that: 
He  had  not  fooled  himself  so  much  as  that; 
He  might  be  dreaming  or  he  might  be  sick, 

199 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

But  not  like  that.    There  was  no  place  for  fear, 

No  reason  for  remorse.    There  was  the  book 

That  he  had  made,  though.  ...  It  might  be  the  book; 

Perhaps  he  might  find  something  in  the  book; 

But  no,  there  could  be  nothing  there  at  all — 

He  knew  it  word  for  word;  but  what  it  meant — 

He  was  not  sure  that  he  had  written  it 

For  what  it  meant;  and  he  was  not  quite  sure 

That  he  had  written  it; — more  likely  it 

Was  all  a  paper  ghost.  .  .  .  But  the  dead  wife 

Was  real:  he  knew  all  that,  for  he  had  been 

To  see  them  bury  her ;  and  he  had  seen 

The  flowers  and  the  snow  and  the  stripped  limbs 

Of  trees ;  and  he  had  heard  the  preacher  pray ; 

And  he  was  back  again,  and-  lae-^wae-glad. 

Was  he  a  brute  ?    No,  he  was  not  a  brute : 

He  was  a  man — like  any  other  man : 

He  had  loved  and  married  his  wife  Miriam, 

They  had  lived  a  little  while  in  paradise 

And  she  was  gone;  and  that  was  all  of  it. 

But  no,  not  all  of  it — not  all  of  it : 
There  was  the  book  again;  something  in  that 
Pursued  him,  overpowered  him,  put  out 
The  futile  strength  of  all  his  whys  and  wheres, 
And  left  him  unintelligibly  numb — 
Too  numb  to  care  for  anything  but  rest. 
It  must  have  been  a  curious  kind  of  book 
That  he  had  made  it :  it  was  a  drowsy  book 
At  any  rate.     The  very  thought  of  it 
Was  like  the  taste  of  some  impossible  drink — 
A  taste  that  had  no  taste,  but  for  all  that 
Had  mixed  with  it  a  strange  thought-cordial, 
So  potent  that  it  somehow  killed  in  him 
The  ultimate  need  of  doubting  any  more — 

200 


THE  BOOK  OF  ANNANDALE 

Of  asking  any  more.    Did  he  but  live 

The  life  that  he  must  live,  there  were  no  more 

To  seek. — The  rest  of  it  was  on  the  way. 

Still  there  was  nothing,  nothing,  in  all  this — 

Nothing  that  he  cared  now  to  reconcile 

With  reason  or  with  sorrow.    All  he  knew 

For  certain  was  that  he  was  tired  out: 

His  flesh  was  heavy  and  his  blood  beat  small; 

Something  supreme  had  been  wrenched  out  of  him 

As  if  to  make  vague  room  for  something  else. 

He  had  been  through  too  much.    Yes,  he  would  stay 

There  where  he  was  and  rest. — And  there  he  stayed; 

The  daylight  became  twilight,  and  he  stayed; 

The  flame  and  the  face  faded,  and  he  slept. 

And  they  had  buried  her  that  afternoon, 

Under  the  tight-screwed  lid  of  a  long  box, 

Under  the  earth,  under  the  leaves  and  snow. 

II 

Look  where  she  would,  feed  conscience  how  she  might, 
There  was  but  one  way  now  for  Damaris — 
One  straight  way  that  was  hers,  hers  to  defend, 
At  hand,  imperious.    But  the  nearness  of  it,  >./ 

The  flesh-bewildering  simplicity,  jp    * 

And  the  plain  strangeness  of  it,  thrilled  again  v   -'^AJ 

That  wretched  little  quivering  single  string  i^j*     0^ 

Which  yielded  not,  but  held  her  to  the  place  /^ 

Where  now  for  five  triumphant_j£ara  ^Q^  s1ppf    )^    i^ 
The  flameless  dust  of  Argan. — He  was  gone,       /  V 
The  good  maTTghe  KacTmarried  long  ago ;  * 

And  she  had  lived,  and  living  she  had  learned, 
And  surely  there  was  nothing  to  regret: 
Much  happiness  had  been  for  each  of  them, 

201 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  they  had  been  like  lovers  to  the  last : 
And  after  that,  and  long,  long  after  that, 
Her  tears  had  washed  out  more  of  widowed  grief 
Than  smiles  had  ever  told  of  other  joy. — 
But  could  she,  looking  back,Jjn£L_aiiyJkhjing 
That  should  return _to_her  jin_  the  nejy  time, 
And  with  relentless  magicjmcreate 
This  temple  of  new  love  where  sbfi  hfl^  f.Virnwn 
Dead  sofrow~on  the  altar  oT^new  lifgj_ 
— Only  one  thing,  only  one  thread  was  left; 

When  she  broke  that,  when  reason  snapped  it  off, 
And  once  for  all,  baffled,  the  grave  let  go 
The  trivial  hideous  hold  it  had  on  her, — 
Then  she  were  free,  free  to  be  what  she  would, 
Free  to  be  what  she  was. — And  yet  she  stayed, 
Leashed,  as  it  were,  and  with  a  cobweb  strand, 
Close  to  a  tombstone — maybe  to  starve  there. 

But  why  to  starve?    And  why  stay  there  at  all? 
Why  not  make  one  good  leap  and  then  be  done 
Forever  and  at  once  with  Argan's  ghost 
And  all  such  outworn  churchyard  servitude? 
For  it  was  Argan's  ghost  that  held  the  string, 
And  her  sick  fancy  that  held  Argan's  ghost — 
Held  it  and  pitied  it.     She  laughed,  almost, 
There  for  the  moment;  but  her  strained  eyes  filled 
With  tears,  and  she  was  angry  for  those  tears — 
Angry  at  first,  then  proud,  then  sorry  for  them. 
So  she  grew  calm;  and  after  a  vain  chase 
For  thoughts  more  vain,  she  questioned  of  herself 
What  measure  of  primeval  doubts  and  fears 
Were  still  to  be  gone  through  that  she  might  win 
Persuasion  of  her  strength  and  of  herself 
To  be  what  she  could  see  that  she  must  be, 
No  matter  where  the  ghost  was. — And  the  more 

202 


THE  BOOK  OF  ANNANDALE 

She  lived,  the  more  she  came  to  recognize 
That  something  out  of  her  thrilled  ignorance 
Was  luminously,  proudly  being  born, 
And  thereby  proving,  thought  by  forward  thought,- 
The  prowess  of  its  image;  and  she  learned 
At  length  to  look  right  on  to  the  long  days          S 
Before  her  without  fearing.     She  could  watch 
The  coming  course  of  them  as  if  they  were 
No  more  than  birds,  that  slowly,  silently, 
And  irretrievably  should  wing  themselves 
Uncounted  out  of  sight.     And  when  h^came 
Again,  she  might  be  free — she  would-be  free. 
Else,  when  he  looked  at  her  she  must  look  down, 
Defeated,  and  malignly  dispossessed 
Of  what  was  hers  to  prove  and  in  the  proving 
Wisely  to  consecrate.     And,jf  the  plague 
Of  that  perverse  defeajLshottH"  come  to  be — 
If  at  that  sickening  end  she  were  to  find 
Herself  to  be  the  same^crer-fjrisoner 
That  he  had  found  at  first — then  she  must  lose 
All  sight  and  sound  of  him,  she  must  abjure 
All  possible  thought  of  him ;  for  he  would  go 
So  far  and  for  so  long  from  her  that  love — 
Yes,  even  a  love  like  his,  exiled  enough, 
Might  for  another's  touch  be  born  again —  j 

Born  to  be  lost  and  starved  for  and  not  found ;  _  ? 
Or,  at  the  next,  the  second  wretchedest,  y0 

It  might  go  mutely  flickering  down  and  out, 
And  on  some  incomplete  and  piteous  day, 
Some  perilous  day  to  come,  she  might  at  last 
Learn,  with  a  noxious  freedom,  what  it  is 
To  be  at  peace  with  ghosts.     Then  were  the  blow  , 
Thrice  deadlier  than  any  kind  of  death 
Could  ever  be:  to  know  that  she  had  won 
The  truth  too  late — there  were  the  dregs  indeed 

203 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Of  wisdom,  and  of  love  the  final  thrust 
Unmerciful;  and  there  where  now  did  lie 
So  plain  before  her  the  straight  radiance 
Of  what  was  her  appointed  way  to  take, 
Were  only  the  bleak  ruts  of  an  old  road 
That  stretched  ahead  and  faded  and  lay  far 
Through  deserts  of  unconscionable  years. 

But  vampire  thoughts  like  these  confessed  the  doubt 
That  love  denied;  and  once,  if  never  again, 
They  should  be  turned  away.    They  might  come  back- 
More  craftily,  perchance,  they  might  come  back — 
And  with  a  spirit-thirst  insatiable 
Finish  the  strength  of  her;  but  now,  to-day 
She  would  have  none  of  them.    She  knew  that  love 
Was  true,  that  he  was  true,  that  she  was  true ; 
And  should  a  death-bed  snare  that  she  had  made 
So  long  ago  be  stretched  inexorably 
Through  all  her  life,  only  to  be  unspun 
With  her  last  breathing?     And  were  bats  and  threads, 
Accursedly  devised  with  watered  gules, 
To  be  Love's  heraldry?    What  were  it  worth 
To  live  and  to  find  out  that  life  were  life 
But  for  an  unrequited  incubus 
Of  outlawed  shame  that  would  not  be  thrown  down 
Till  she  had  thrown  down  fear  and  overcome 
The  woman  that  was  yet  so  much  of  her 
That  she  might  yet  go  mad  ?    What  were  it  worth 
To  live,  to  linger,  and  to  be  condemned 
In  her  submission  to  a  common  thought 
That  clogged  itself  and  made  of  its  first  faith 
Its  last  impediment?    What  augured  it, 
Now  in  this  quick  beginning  of  new  life, 
To  clutch  the  sunlight  and  be  feeling  back, 
Back  with  a  scared  fantastic  fearfulness, 

204 


THE  BOOK  OF  ANNANDALE 

To  touch,  not  knowing  why,  the  vexed-up  ghost 
Of  what  was  gone? 

Yes,  there  was  Argan's  face, 
Pallid  and  pinched  and  ruinously  marked       v 
With  big  pathetic  bones;  there  were  his  eyes,      '< 
Quiet  and  large,  fixed  wistfully  on  hers; 
And  there,  close-pressed  again  within  her  own, 
Quivered  his  cold  thin  fingers.     And,  ah!  yes, 
There  were  the  words,  those  dying  words  again, 
And  hers  that  answered  when  she  promised  him. 
Promised  him  ?  .  .  .  yes.     And  had  she  known  the  truth 
Of  what  she  felt  that  he  should  ask  her  that, 
And  had  she  known  the  love  that  was  to  be, 
God  knew  that  she  could  not  have  told  him  then. 
But  then  she  knew  it  not,  nor  thought  of  it; 
There  was  no  need  of  it;  nor  was  there  need 
Of  any  problematical  support 
Whereto  to  cling  while  she  convinced  herself 
That  love's  intuitive  utility, 
Inexorably  merciful,  had  proved 
That  what  was  human  was  unpermanent 
And  what  was  flesh  was  ashes.     She  had  told  _     ~  LJ. 
Him  then  thatjhja^yould  love  -rttrotfaer  man,    <fi) 
That  there  was  nok.another  man-on  earth 
Whom  she  could  ever  love,  or  who  could  make 
So  much  as  a  love  thought  go  through  her  brain; 
And  he  had  smiled.     And  just  before  he  died 
His  lips  had  made  as  if  to  say  something — 
Something  that  passed  unwhispered  with  his  breath, 
Out  of  her  reach,  out  of  all  quest  of  it. 
And  then,  could  she  have  known  enough  to  know 
The  meaning  of  her  grief,  the  folly  of  it, 
The  faithlessness  and  the  proud  anguish  of  it, 
There  might  be  now  no  threads  to  punish  her, 

205 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

No  vampire  thoughts  to  suck  the  coward  blood, 
The  life,  the  very  soul  of  her. 

Yes,  Yes, 

They  might  come  back.  .  .  .  But  why  should  they  come  back  ? 
Why  was  it  she  had  suffered?    Why  had  she 
Struggled  and  grown  these  years  to  demonstrate 
That  close  without  those  hovering  clouds  of  gloom 
And  through  them  here  and  there  forever  gleamed 
The  Light  itself,  the  life,  the  love,  the  glory, 
Which  was  of  its  own  radiance  good  proof 
That  all  the  rest  was  darkness  and  blind  sight? 
And  who  was  she?    The  woman  she  had  known — 
The  woman  she  had  petted  and  called  "I" — 
The  woman  she  had  pitied,  and  at  last 
Commiserated  for  the  most  abject 
And  persecuted  of  all  womankind, — 
Could  it  be  she  that  had  sought  out  the  way 
To  measure  and  thereby  to  quench  in  her 
The  woman's  fear — the  fear  of  her  not  fearing? 
A  nervous  little  laugh  that  lost  itself, 
Like  logic  in  a  dream,  fluttered  her  thoughts 
An  instant  there  that  ever  she  should  ask 
What  she  might  then  have  told  so  easily — 
So  easily  that  Annandale  had  frowned, 
Had  he  been  given  wholly  to  be  told 
The  truth  of  what  had  never  been  before 
So  passionately,  so  inevitably 
Confessed. 

For  she  could  see  from  where  she  sat 
The  sheets  that  he  had  bound  up  like  a  book 
And  covered  with  red  leather;  and  her  eyes 
Could  see  between  the  pages  of  the  book, 
Though  her  eyes,  like  them,  were  closed.    And  she  could  read 

206 


THE  BOOK  OF  ANNANDALE 

As  well  as  if  she  had  them  in  her  hand, 

What  he  had  written  on  them  long  ago, — 

Sjifc  years  ago,  when  he  was  waiting  for  her. 

She  might  as  well  have  said  that  she  could  see 

The  man  himself,  as  once  he  would  have  looked 

Had  she  been  there  to  watch  him  while  he  wrote 

Those  words,  and  all  for  her.  .  .  .  For  her  whose  face 

Had  flashed  itself,  prophetic  and  unseen,  'tij 

But  not  unspirited,  between  the  life  UfS 

That  would  have  been  without  her  and  the  life  -"  '  \ 

That  he  had  gathered  up  like  frozen  roots       t      ^y?   \\V 

Out  of  a  grave-clod  lying  at  his  feet,  C      \jj-v 

Unconsciously,  and  as  unconsciously  Q 

Transplanted  and  revived.    He  did  not  know 

The  kind  of  life  that  he  had  found,  nor  did 

He  doubt,  not  knowing  it;  but  well  he  knew 

That  it  was  life — new  life,  and  that  the  old 

Might  then  with  unimprisoned  wings  go  free, 

Onward  and  all  along  to  its  own  light, 

Through  the  appointed  shadow. 

While  she  gazed 

Upon  it  there  she  felt  within  herself 
The  growing  of  a  newer  consciousness — 
The  pride  of  something  fairer  than  her  first 
Outclamoring  of  interdicted  thought 
Had  ever  quite  foretold;  and  all  at  once 
There  quivered  and  requivered  through  her  flesh, 
Like  music,  like  the  sound  of  an  old  song, 
Triumphant,  love-remembered  murmurings 
Of  what  for  passion's  innocence  had  been 
Too  mightily,  too  perilously  hers, 
Ever  to  be  reclaimed  and  realized 
Until  to-day.    To-day  she  could  throw  off 
The  burden  that  had  held  her  down  so  long, 

207 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  she  could  stand  upright,  and  she  could  see 
The  way  to  take,  with  eyes  that  had  in  them 
No  gleam  but  of  the  spirit.    Day  or  night, 
No  matter;  she  could  see  what  was  to  see — 
All  that  had  been  till  now  shut  out  from  her, 
The  service,  the  fulfillment,  and  the  truth, 
And  thus  the  cruel  wiseness  of  it  all. 

So  Damaris,  more  like  than  anything 
To  one  long  prisoned  in  a  twilight  cave 
With  hovering  bats  for  all  companionship, 
And  after  time  set  free  to  fight  the  sun, 
Laughed  out,  so  glad  she  was  to  recognize 
The  test  of  what  had  been,  through  all  her  folly, 
The  courage  of  her  conscience;  for  she  knew,  . 
Now  on  a  late-flushed  autumn  afternoon 
That  else  had  been  too  bodeful  of  dead  things 
To  be  endured  with  aught  but  the  same  old 
Inert,  self-contradicted  martyrdom 
Which  she  had  known  so  long,  that  she  could  look 
Right  forward  through  the  years,  nor  any  more 
Shrink  with  a  cringing  prescience  to  behold 
The  glitter  of  dead  summer  on  the  grass, 
Or  the  brown-glimmered  crimson  of  still  trees 
Across  the  intervale  where  flashed  along, 
Black-silvered,  the  cold  river.    She  had  found, 
As  if  by  some  transcendent  freakishness 
Of  reason,  the  glad  life  that  she  had  sought 
Where  naught  but  obvious  clouds  could  ever  be — 
Clouds  to  put  out  th£_sjinlighi-from  her  eyes, 
Arid  to  put  out_JJie-4evc  light  from  her  soul. 
Uut  they  were  gone — now  they  were  all  gone; 
And  with  a  whimsied  pathos,  like  the  mist 
Of  grief  that  clings  to  new-found  happiness 
Hard  wrought,  she  might  have  pity  for  the  small 

208 


THE  BOOK  OF  ANNANDALE 

Defeated  quest  of  them  that  brushed  her  sight 
Like  flying  lint — lint  that  had  once  been  thread.  .  .  . 

Yes,  like  an  anodyne,  the  voice  of  him, 
There  were  the  words  that  he  had  made  for  her, 
For  her  alone.     The  more  she  thought  of  them 
The  more  she  lived  them,  and  the  more  she  knew 
The  life-grip  and  the  pulse  of  warm  strength  in  them. 
They  were  the  first  and  last  of  words  to  her, 
And  there  was  in  them  a  far  questioning 
That  had  for  long  been  variously  at  work, 
Divinely  and  elusively  at  work, 
With  TiAr,  gTTit^fei-t-h-JJjp  RTflvft  that  had  been  hers; 
Thgg— were  eternql  words.  and_Lhey-  ditfS&ed     ^      ]/ 
A  flame  of  meaning  that  men's  lexicons 
Had  never  kindled;  they  were  choral  words 
That  harmonized  with  love's  enduring  chords 
Like  wisdom  with  release;  triumphant  words 
That  rang  like  elemental  orisons 
Through  ages  out  of  ages;  words  that  fed 
Love's  hunger  in  the  spirit;  words  that  smote; 
Thrilled  words  that  echoed,  and  barbed  words  that  clung  ;- 
And  every  one  of  them  was  like  a  friend 
Whose  obstinate  fidelity,  well  tried, 
Had  found  at  last  and  irresistibly 
The  way  to  her  close  conscience,  and  thereby 
Revealed  the  unsubstantial  Nemesis 
That  she  had  clutched  and  shuddered  at  so  long; 
And  every  one  of  them  was  like  a  real 
And  ringing  voice,  clear  toned  and  absolute, 
But  of  a  love-subdued  authority 
That  uttered  thrice  the  plain  significance 
Of  what  had  else  been  generously  vague 
And  indolently  true.     It  may  have  been 
The  triumph  and  the  magic  of  the  soul, 

209 


i 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Unspeakably  revealed,  that  finally 

Had  reconciled  the  grim  probationing 

Of  wisdom  with  unalterable  faith, 

But  she  could  feel — not  knowing  what  it  was, 

For  the  sheer  freedom  of  it — a  new  joy 

That  humanized  the  latent  wizardry 

Of  his  prophetic  voice  and  put  for  it 

The  man  within  the  music. 

So  it  came 

To  pass,  like  many  a  long-compelled  emprise 
That  with  its  first  accomplishment  almost 
Annihilates  its  own  severity, 
That  she  could  find,  whenever  she  might  look, 
The  certified  achievement  of  a  love 
That  had  endured,  self-guarded  and  supreme, 
To  the  glad  end  of  all  that  wavering ; 
And  she  could  see  that  now  the  flickering  world 
Of  ^autumn  was  awake  with  sudden,  bloom. 
New-born,~~peffbrce7of  a  slow  bourgeoning. 
And  she  had  found  what  more  than  half  had  been 
The  grave-deluded,  flesh-bewildered  fear 
Which  men  and  women  struggle  to  call  faith, 
To  be  the  paid  progression  to  an  end 
Whereat  she  knew  the  foresight  and  the  strength 
To  glorify  the  gift  of  what  was  hers, 

^vindicate  the  truth  of  what  she  was.^ 
And Tftart'lffTiomelx)  rner~so-stnWenly  ? 
There  was  a  pity  and  a  weariness 
In  asking  that,  and  a  great  needlessness ; 
For  now  there  were  no  wretched  quivering  strings 
That  held  her  to  the  churchyard  any  more : 
There  were  no  thoughts  that  flapped  themselves  like  bats 
Around  her  any  more.    The  shield  of  love 
Was  clean,  and  she  had  paid  enough  to  learn 

210 


SAINTE-NITOUCHE 

How  it  had  always  been  so.    And  the  truth, 

Like  silence  after  some  far  victory, 

Had  come  to  her,  and  she  had  found  it  out 

As  if  it  were  a  vision,  a  thing  born 

So  suddenly! — just_a^_a_jflpwer_is  born, 

Or  as  a  world  is_born — so  suddenly. 


SAINTE-NITOUCHE 

THOUGH  not  for  common  praise  of  him, 

Nor  yet  for  pride  or  charity, 
Still  would  I  make  to  Yanderberg 

One  tribute  for  his  memory : 

One  honest  warrant  of  a  friend 

Who  found  with  him  that  flesh  was  grass — 
Who  neither  blamed  him  in  defect 

Nor  marveled  how  it  came  to  pass; 

Or  why  it  ever  was  that  he — 

That  Yanderberg,  of  all  good  men, 

Should  lose  himself  to  find  himself, 
Straightway  to  lose  himself  again. 

For  we  had  buried  Sainte-Nitouche, 
And  he  had  said  to  me  that  night: 

(CYes,  we  hare  laid  her  in  the  earth, 
But  what  of  that?"  And  he  was  right. 

And  he  had  said :    "We  have  a  wife, 
We  have  a  child,  we  have  a  church; 

'T  would  be  a  scurrilous  way  out 
If  we  should  leave  them  in  the  lurch. 
211 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"That's  why  I  have  you  here  with  me 
To-night :  you  know  a  talk  may  take 

The  place  of  bromide,  cyanide, 
Et  cetera.     For  heaven's  sake, 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that? 

What  have  I  done  to  freeze  you  so? 
Dear  man,  you  see  where  friendship  means 

A  few  things  yet  that  you  don't  know; 

"And  you  see  partly  why  it  is 

That  I  am  glad  for  what  is  gone: 

For  Sainte-Nitouche  and  for  the  world 
In  me  that  followed.    What  lives  on — 

"Well,  here  you  have  it :  here  at  home — 

For  even  home  will  yet  return. 
You  know  the  truth  is  on  my  side, 

And  that  will  make  the  embers  burn. 

"I  see  them  brighten  while  I  speak, 
I  see  them  flash, — and  they  are  mine  I 

You  do  not  know  them,  but  I  do: 
I  know  the  way  they  used  to  shine. 

"And  I  know  more  than  I  have  told 

Of  other  life  that  is  to  be : 
I  shall  have  earned  it  when  it  comes, 

And  when  it  comes  I  shall  be  free. 

"Not  as  I  was  before  she  came, 
But  farther  on  for  having  been 

The  servitor,  the  slave  of  her — 

The  fool,  you  think.    But  there's  your  sin- 
212 


SAINTE-NITOUCHE 

"Forgive  me! — and  your  ignorance: 
Could  you  but  have  the  vision  here 

That  I  have,  you  would  understand 
As  I  do  that  all  ways  are  clear 

"For  those  who  dare  to  follow  them 
With  earnest  eyes  and  honest  feet. 

But  Sainte-Nitouche  has  made  the  way 
For  me,  and  I  shall  find  it  sweet. 

"Sweet  with  a  bitter  sting  left? — Yes, 
Bitter  enough,  God  knows,  at  first; 

But  there  are  more  steep  ways  than  one 
To  make  the  best  look  like  the  worst; 

"And  here  is  mine — the  dark  and  hard, 
For  me  to  follow,  trust,  and  hold: 

And  worship,  so  that  I  may  leave 
No  broken  story  to  be  told. 

"Therefore  I  welcome  what  may  come, 
Glad  for  the  days,  the  nights,  the  years."- 

An  upward  flash  of  ember-flame 
Revealed  the  gladness  in  his  tears. 

"You  see  them,  but  you  know,"  said  he, 

"Too  much  to  be  incredulous: 
You  know  the  day  that  makes  us  wise, 

The  moment  that  makes  fools  of  us. 

"So  I  shall  follow  from  now  on 

The  road  that  she  has  found  for  me : 

The  dark  and  starry  way  that  leads 
Right  upward,  and  eternally. 
213 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Stumble  at  first?    I  may  do  that; 

And  I  may  grope,  and  hate  the  night; 
But  there's  a  guidance  for  the  man 

Who  stumbles  upward  for  the  light, 

"And  I  shall  have  it  all  from  her, 
The  foam-born  child  of  innocence. 

I  feel  you  smiling  while  I  speak, 
But  that's  of  little  consequence; 

"For  when  we  learn  that  we  may  find 
The  truth  where  others  miss  the  mark, 

What  is  it  worth  for  us  to  know 

That  friends  are  smiling  in  the  dark? 

"Could  we  but  share  the  lonely  pride 
Of  knowing,  all  would  then  be  well; 

But  knowledge  often  writes  itself 
In  flaming  words  we  cannot  spell. 

"And  I,  who  have  my  work  to  do, 
Look  forward;  and  I  dare  to  see, 

Far  stretching  and  all  mountainous, 

God's  pathway  through  the  gloom  for  me." 

I  found  so  little  to  say  then 

That  I  said  nothing. — "Say  good-night," 
Said  Vanderberg;  "and  when  we  meet 

To-morrow,  tell  me  I  was  right. 

"Forget  the  dozen  other  things 
That  you  have  not  the  faith  to  say; 

For  now  I  know  as  well  as  you 
That  you  are  glad  to  go  away." 
214 


SAINTE-NITOUCHE 

I  could  have  blessed  the  man  for  that, 
And  he  could  read  me  with  a  smile: 

"You  doubt,"  said  he,  "but  if  we  live 
You'll  know  me  in  a  little  while." 

He  lived;  and  all  as  he  foretold, 

I  knew  him — better  than  he  thought: 

My  fancy  did  not  wholly  dig 

The  pit  where  I  believed  him  caught. 

But  yet  he  lived  and  laughed,  and  preached, 
And  worked — as  only  players  can: 

He  scoured  the  shrine  that  once  was  home 
And  kept  himself  a  clergyman. 

The  clockwork  of  his  cold  routine 

Put  friends  far  off  that  once  were  near; 

The  five  staccatos  in  his  laugh 
Were  too  defensive  and  too  clear; 

The  glacial  sermons  that  he  preached 
Were  longer  than  they  should  have  been; 

And,  like  the  man  who  fashioned  them, 
The  best  were  too  divinely  thin. 

But  still  he  lived,  and  moved,  and  had 
The  sort  of  being  that  was  his, 

Till  on  a  day  the  shrine  of  home 
For  him  was  in  the  Mysteries : — 

"My  friend,  there's  one  thing  yet,"  said  he, 
"And  one  that  I  have  never  shared 

With  any  man  that  I  have  met ; 

But  you — you  know  me."    And  he  stared 
215 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

For  a  slow  moment  at  me  then 

With  conscious  eyes  that  had  the  gleam, 
The  shine,  before  the  stroke: — "You  know 

The  ways  of  us,  the  way  we  dream: 

<fYou  know  the  glory  we  have  won, 
You  know  the  glamour  we  have  lost; 

You  see  me  now,  you  look  at  me, — 
And  yes,  you  pity  me,  almost; 

"But  never  mind  the  pity — no, 

Confess  the  faith  you  can't  conceal; 

And  if  you  frown,  be  not  like  one 
Of  those  who  frown  before  they  feel. 

"For  there  is  truth,  and  half  truth, — yes, 
And  there's  a  quarter  truth,  no  doubt; 

But  mine  was  more  than  half.  .  .  .  You  smile? 
You  understand?    You  bear  me  out? 

"You  always  knew  that  I  was  right — 
You  are  my  friend — and  I  have  tried 

Your  faith — your  love." — The  gleam  grew  small, 
The  stroke  was  easy,  and  he  died. 

I  saw  the  dim  look  change  itself 

To  one  that  never  will  be  dim; 
I  saw  the  dead  flesh  to  the  grave, 

But  that  was  not  the  last  of  him. 

For  what  was  his  to  live  lives  yet : 

Truth,  quarter  truth,  death  cannot  reach; 

Nor  is  it  always  what  we  know 
That  we  are  fittest  here  to  teach. 
216 


SAINTE-NITOUCHE 

The  fight  goes  on  when  fields  are  still, 
The  triumph  clings  when  arms  are  down; 

The  jewels  of  all  coronets 

Are  pebbles  of  the  unseen  crown; 

The  specious  weight  of  loud  reproof 
Sinks  where  a  still  conviction  floats; 

And  on  God's  ocean  after  storm 

Time's  wreckage  is  half  pilot-boats; 

And  what  wet  faces  wash  to  sight 

Thereafter  feed  the  common  moan; — 

But  Vanderberg  no  pilot  had, 
Nor  could  have:  he  was  all  alone. 

Unchallenged  by  the  larger  light 
The  starry  quest  was  his  to  make; 

And  of  all  ways  that  are  for  men, 
The  starry  way  was  his  to  take. 

We  grant  him  idle  names  enough 
To-day,  but  even  while  we  frown 

The  fight  goes  on,  the  triumph  clings, 
And  there  is  yet  the  unseen  crown 

But  was  it  his  ?    Did  Vanderberg 

Find  half  truth  to  be  passion's  thrall, 

Or  as  we  met  him  day  by  day, 
Was  love  triumphant,  after  all? 

I  do  not  know  so  much  as  that; 

I  only  know  that  he  died  right: 
Saint  Anthony  nor  Sainte-Nitouche 

Had  ever  smiled  as  he  did — quite. 
217 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


AS  A  WORLD  WOULD  HAVE  IT 

ALCESTIS 

SHALL  I  never  make  him  look  at  me  again? 
I  look  at  him,  I  look  my  life  at  him, 
I  tell  him  all  I  know  the  way  to  tell, 
But  there  he  stays  the  same. 

Shall  I  never  make  him  speak  one  word  to  me? 
Shall  I  never  make  him  say  enough  to  show 
My  heart  if  he  be  glad?    Be  glad?  ...  ah!  God, 
Why  did  they  bring  me  back? 

I  wonder,  if  I  go  to  him  again, 
If  I  take  him  by  those  two  cold  hands  again, 
Shall  I  get  one  look  of  him  at  last,  or  feel 
One  sign — or  anything? 

Or  will  he  still  sit  there  in  the  same  way, 
Without  an  answer  for  me  from  his  lips, 
Or  from  his  eyes, — or  even  with  a  touch 
Of  his  hand  on  my  hand  ?  .  .  . 

"Will  you  look  down  this  once — look  down  at  me  ? 
Speak  once — and  if  you  never  speak  again, 
Tell  me  enough — tell  me  enough  to  make 
Me  know  that  you  are  glad ! 

<(You  are  my  King,  and  once  my  King  would  speak : 
You  were  Admetus  once,  you  loved  me  once: 
Life  was  a  dream  of  heaven  for  us  once — 
And  has  the  dream  gone  by? 
218 


AS  A  WORLD  WOULD  HAVE  IT 

"Do  I  cling  to  shadows  when  I  call  you  Life? 
Do  you  love  me  still,  or  are  the  shadows  all? 
Or  is  it  I  that  love  you  in  the  grave, 
And  you  that  mourn  for  me? 

"If  it  be  that,  then  do  not  mourn  for  me; 
Be  glad  that  I  have  loved  you,  and  be  King. 
But  if  it  be  not  that — if  it  be  true  .  .  . 
Tell  me  if  it  be  true!" 

Then  with  a  choking  answer  the  King  spoke; 
But  never  touched  his  hand  on  hers,  or  fixed 
His  eyes  on  hers,  or  on  the  face  of  her : 
"Yes,  it  is  true,"  he  said. 

"You  are  alive,  and  you  are  with  me  now; 
And  you  are  reaching  up  to  me  that  I — 
That  I  may  take  you — I  that  am  a  King — 
I  that  was  once  a  man." 

So  then  she  knew.     She  might  have  known  before; 
Truly,  she  thought,  she  must  have  known  it  long 
Before:  she  must  have  known  it  when  she  came 
From  that  great  sleep  of  hers. 

She  knew  the  truth,  but  not  yet  all  of  it : 
He  loved  her,  but  he  would  not  let  his  eyes 
Prove  that  he  loved  her ;  and  he  would  not  hold 
His  wife  there  in  his  arms. 

So,  like  a  slave,  she  waited  at  his  knees, 
And  waited.     She  was  not  unhappy  now. 
She  quivered,  but  she  knew  that  he  would  speak 
Again — and  he  did  speak. 
219 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  while  she  felt  the  tremor  of  his  words, 
He  told  her  all  there  was  for  him  to  tell ; 
And  .then  he  turned  his  face  to  meet  her  face, 
That  she  might  look  at  him. 

She  looked;  and  all  her  trust  was  in  that  look, 
And  all  her  faith  was  in  it,  and  her  love; 
And  when  his  answer  to  that  look  came  back, 
It  flashed  back  through  his  tears. 

So  then  she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
And  kissed  him  on  his  forehead  and  his  lips; 
And  there  she  clung,  fast  in  his  arms  again, 
Triumphant,  with  closed  eyes. 

At  last,  half  whispering,  she  spoke  once  more: 
"Why  was  it  that  you  suffered  for  so  long? 
Why  could  you  not  believe  me — trust  in  me? 
Was  I  so  strange  as  that? 

tcWe  suffer  when  we  do  not  understand; 
And  you  have  suffered — you  that  love  me  now — 
Because  you  are  a  man.  .  .  .  There  is  one  thing 
No  man  can  understand. 

"I  would  have  given  everything? — gone  down 
To  Tartarus— to  silence?    Was  it  that? 
I  would  have  died?    I  would  have  let  you  live? — 
And  was  it  very  strange?" 


THE  CORRIDOR 

IT  may  have  been  the  pride  in  me  for  aught 
I  know,  or  just  a  patronizing  whim; 
But  call  it  freak  or  fancy,  or  what  not, 
I  cannot  hide  that  hungry  face  of  him. 

220 


CORTEGE 

I  keep  a  scant  half-dozen  words  he  said, 
And  every  now  and  then  I  lose  his  name; 
He  may  be  living  or  he  may  be  dead, 
But  I  must  have  him  with  me  all  the  same. 

I  knew  it,  and  I  knew  it  all  along, — 
And  felt  it  once  or  twice,  or  thought  I  did ; 
But  only  as  a  glad  man  feels  a  song 
That  sounds  around  a  stranger's  coffin  lid. 

I  knew  it,  and  he  knew  it,  I  believe, 
But  silence  held  us  alien  to  the  end; 
And  I  have  now  no  magic  to  retrieve 
That  year,  to  stop  that  hunger  for  a  friend. 


CORTEGE 

FOUR  o'clock  this  afternoon, 
Fifteen  hundred  miles  away : 
So  it  goes,  the  crazy  tune, 
So  it  pounds  and  hums  all  day 

Four  o'clock  this  afternoon, 
Earth  will  hide  them  far  away: 
Best  they  go  to  go  so  soon, 
Best  for  them  the  grave  to-day. 

Had  she  gone  but  half  so  soon, 
Half  the  world  had  passed  away. 
Four  o'clock  this  afternoon, 
Best  for  them  they  go  to-day. 

Four  o'clock  this  afternoon 
Love  will  hide  them  deep,  they  say; 
Love  that  made  the  grave  so  soon, 
Fifteen  hundred  miles  away. 
221 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Four  o'clock  this  afternoon — 
Ah,  but  they  go  slow  to-day: 
Slow  to  suit  my  crazy  tune, 
Past  the  need  of  all  we  say. 

Best  it  came  to  come  so  soon, 
Best  for  them  they  go  to-day : 
Four  o'clock  this  afternoon, 
Fifteen  hundred  miles  away. 


PARTNERSHIP 

YES,  you  have  it;  I  can  see. 
Beautiful?  .  .  .  Dear,  look  at  me! 
Look  and  let  my  shame  confess 
Triumph  after  weariness. 
Beautiful?    Ah,  yes. 

Lift  it  where  the  beams  are  bright; 
Hold  it  where  the  western  light, 
Shining  in  above  my  bed, 
Throws  a  glory  on  your  head. 
Now  it  is  all  said. 

All  there  was  for  me  to  say 
From  the  first  until  to-day. 
Long  denied  and  long  deferred, 
Now  I  say  it  in  one  word — 
Now;  and  you  have  heard. 

Life  would  have  its  way  with  us, 
And  I've  called  it  glorious : 
For  I  know  the  glory  now 
And  I  read  it  on  your  brow. 
You  have  shown  me  how. 
222 


TWILIGHT  SONG 

I  can  feel  your  cheeks  all  wet, 
But  your  eyes  will  not  forget : 
In  the  frown  you  cannot  hide 
I  can  read  where  faith  and  pride 
Are  not  satisfied. 

But  the  word  was,  two  should  live: 
Two  should  suffer — and  forgive: 
By  the  steep  and  weary  way, 
For  the  glory  of  the  clay, 
Two  should  have  their  day. 

We  have  toiled  and  we  have  wept 
For  the  gift  the  gods  have  kept: 
Clashing  and  unreconciled 
When  we  might  as  well  have  smiled, 
We  have  played  the  child. 

But  the  clashing  is  all  past, 
And  the  gift  is  yours  at  last. 
Lift  it — hold  it  high  again !  .  .  . 
Did  I  doubt  you  now  and  then  ? 
Well,  we  are  not  men. 

Never  mind;  we  know  the  way, — 
And  I  do  not  need  to  stay. 
Let  us  have  it  well  confessed : 
You  to  triumph,  I  to  rest. 
That  will  be  the  best. 


TWILIGHT  SONG 

THROUGH  the  shine,  through  the  rain 
We  have  shared  the  day's  load; 
To  the  old  march  again 
We  have  tramped  the  long  road; 
223 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

We  have  laughed,  we  have  cried, 
And  we've  tossed  the  King's  crown; 
We  have  fought,  we  have  died, 
And  we've  trod  the  day  down. 
So  it's  lift  the  old  song 
Ere  the  night  flies  again, 
Where  the  road  leads  along 
Through  the  shine,  through  the  rain. 

Long  ago,  far  away, 
Came  a  sign  from  the  skies; 
And  we  feared  then  to  pray 
For  the  new  sun  to  rise: 
With  the  King  there  at  hand, 
Not  a  child  stepped  or  stirred — 
Where  the  light  filled  the  land 
And  the  light  brought  the  word; 
For  we  knew  then  the  gleam 
Though  we  feared  then  the  day, 
And  the  dawn  smote  the  dream 
Long  ago,  far  away. 

But  the  road  leads  us  all, 
For  the  King  now  is  dead; 
And  we  know,  stand  or  fall, 
We  have  shared  the  day's  bread. 
We  may  laugh  down  the  dream, 
For  the  dream  breaks  and  flies; 
And  we  trust  now  the  gleam, 
For  the  gleam  never  dies; — 
So  it's  off  now  the  load, 
For  we  know  the  night's  call, 
And  we  know  now  the  road 
And  the  road  leads  us  all. 
224 


VARIATIONS  OF  GREEK  THEMES 

Through  the  shine,  through  the  rain, 
We  have  wrought  the  day's  quest; 
To  the  old  march  again 
We  have  earned  the  day's  rest; 
We  have  laughed,  we  have  cried, 
And  we've  heard  the  King's  groans; 
We  have  fought,  we  have  died, 
And  we've  burned  the  King's  bones, 
And  we  lift  the  old  song 
Ere  the  night  flies  again, 
Where  the  road  leads  along 
Through  the  shine,  through  the  rain. 


VARIATIONS  OF  GREEK  THEMES 

I 

A  HAPPY  MAN 
(Carphyllides) 

WHEN  these  graven  lines  you  see, 
Traveler,  do  not  pity  me; 
Though  I  be  among  the  dead, 
Let  no  mournful  word  be  said. 

Children  that  I  leave  behind, 
And  their  children,  all  were  kind; 
Near  to  them  and  to  my  wife, 
I  was  happy  all  my  life. 

My  three  sons  I  married  right, 
And  their  sons  I  rocked  at  night; 
Death  nor  sorrow  ever  brought 
Cause  for  one  unhappy  thought. 
225 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Now,  and  with  no  need  of  tears, 
Here  they  leave  me,  full  of  years, — 
Leave  me  to  my  quiet  rest 
In  the  region  of  the  blest. 

n 

A  MIGHTY  EUNNEB 
(Nicarchus) 

THE  day  when  Charmus  ran  with  five 

In  Arcady,  as  I'm  alive, 

He  came  in  seventh. — "Five  and  one 

Make  seven,  you  say  ?    It  can't  be  done." — 

Well,  if  you  think  it  needs  a  note, 

A  friend  in  a  fur  overcoat 

Ran  with  him,  crying  all  the  while, 

"You'll  beat  'em,  Charmus,  by  a  mile!" 

And  so  he  came  in  seventh. 

Therefore,  good  Zoilus,  you  see 

The  thing  is  plain  as  plain  can  be; 

And  with  four  more  for  company, 

He  would  have  been  eleventh. 

m 

THE  RAVEN 
(Nicarchns) 

THE  gloom  of  death  is  on  the  raven's  wing, 
The  song  of  death  is  in  the  raven's  cries : 

But  when  Demophilus  begins  to  sing, 
The  raven  dies. 

226 


VARIATIONS  OF  GREEK  THEMES 
IV 

EUTYCHIDES 

(Lucilius) 

EUTYCHIDES,  who  wrote  the  songs, 
Is  going  down  where  he  belongs. 
O  you  unhappy  ones,  beware: 
Euty chides  will  soon  be  there! 
For  he  is  coming  with  twelve  lyres, 
And  with  more  than  twice  twelve  quires 
Of  the  stuff  that  he  has  done 
In  the  world  from  which  he's  gone. 
Ah,  now  must  you  know  death  indeed, 
For  he  is  coming  with  all  speed; 
And  with  Eutychides  in  Hell, 
Where's  a  poor  tortured  soul  to  dwell? 

V 

DORICHA 

(Posidippus) 

So  now  the  very  bones  of  you  are  gone 
Where  they  were  dust  and  ashes  long  ago; 
And  there  was  the  last  ribbon  you  tied  on 
To  bind  your  hair,  and  that  is  dust  also; 
And  somewhere  there  is  dust  that  was  of  old 
A  soft  and  scented  garment  that  you  wore — 
The  same  that  once  till  dawn  did  closely  fold 
You  in  with  fair  Charaxus,  fair  no  more. 

But  Sappho,  and  the  white  leaves  of  her  song, 
Will  make  your  name  a  word  for  all  to  learn, 
And  all  to  love  thereafter,  even  while 
227 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

It's  but  a  name;  and  this  will  be  as  long 
As  there  are  distant  ships  that  will  return 
Again  to  your  Naucratis  and  the  Nile. 

VI 

THE  DUST  OF  TIMAS 

(Sappho) 

THIS  dust  was  Timas;  and  they  say 
That  almost  on  her  wedding  day 
She  found  her  bridal  home  to  be 
The  dark  house  of  Persephone. 

And  many  maidens,  knowing  then 
That  she  would  not  come  back  again, 
Unbound  their  curls ;  and  all  in  tears, 
They  cut  them  off  with  sharpened  shears. 

vn 

ARETEMIAS 
(Antipater  of  Sidon) 

I'M  sure  I  see  it  all  now  as  it  was, 

When  first  you  set  your  foot  upon  the  shore 

Where  dim  Oocytus  flows  for  evermore, 

And  how  it  came  to  pass 

That  all  those  Dorian  women  who  are  there 

In  Hades,  and  still  fair, 

Came  up  to  you,  so  young,  and  wept  and  smiled 

When  they  beheld  you  and  your  little  child. 

And  then,  I'm  sure,  with  tears  upon  your  face 

To  be  in  that  sad  place, 


VARIATIONS  OF  GREEK  THEMES 

You  told  of  the  two  children  you  had  borne, 
And  then  of  Euphron,  whom  you  leave  to  mourn. 
"One  stays  with  him,"  you  said, 
"And  this  one  I  bring  with  me  to  the  dead." 

VIII 

THE  OLD  STORY 
(Marcus  Argentarius) 

LIKE  many  a  one,  when  you  had  gold 
Love  met  you  smiling,  we  are  told; 
But  now  that  all  your  gold  is  gone, 
Love  leaves  you  hungry  and  alone. 

And  women,  who  have  called  you  more 
Sweet  names  than  ever  were  before, 
Will  ask  another  now  to  tell 
What  man  you  are  and  where  you  dwell. 

Was  ever  anyone  but  you 

So  long  in  learning  what  is  true? 

Must  you  find  only  at  the  end 

That  who  has  nothing  has  no  friend? 

IX 

TO-MORROW 
(Macedonius) 

TO-MORROW?    Then  your  one  word  left  is  always  now  the  same; 
And  that's  a  word  that  names  a  day  that  has  no  more  a  name. 
To-morrow,  I  have  learned  at  last,  is  all  you  have  to  give : 

229 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  rest  will  be  another's  now,  as  long  as  I  may  live. 

You  will  see  me  in  the  evening? — And  what  evening  has  there 

been, 
Since  time  began  with  women,  but  old  age  and  wrinkled  skin  ? 


X 

LAIS  TO  APHRODITE 
(Plato) 

WHEN  I,  poor  Lais,  with  my  crown 
Of  beauty  could  laugh  Hellas  down, 
Young  lovers  crowded  at  my  door, 
Where  now  my  lovers  come  no  more. 

So,  Goddess,  you  will  not  refuse 
A  mirror  that  has  now  no  use; 
For  what  I  was  I  cannot  be, 
And  what  I  am  I  will  not  see. 


XI 

AN  INSCRIPTION  BY  THE  SEA 
(Glaucus) 

No  dust  have  I  to  cover  me, 
My  grave  no  man  may  show; 

My  tomb  is  this  unending  sea, 
And  I  lie  far  below. 

My  fate,  O  stranger,  was  to  drown; 

And  where  it  was  the  ship  went  down 
Is  what  the  sea-birds  know. 
230 


THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY 


THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY 

WAR  shook  the  land  where  Levi  dwelt, 
And  fired  the  dismal  wrath  he  felt, 
That  such  a  doom  was  ever  wrought 
As  his,  to  toil  while  others  fought; 
To  toil,  to  dream — and  still  to  dream, 
With  one  day  barren  as  another; 
To  consummate,  as  it  would  seem, 
The  dry  despair  of  his  old  mother. 

Far  off  one  afternoon  began 

The  sound  of  man  destroying  man; 

And  Levi,  sick  with  nameless  rage, 

Condemned  again  his  heritage, 

And  sighed  for  scars  that  might  have  come, 

And  would,  if  once  he  could  have  sundered 

Those  harsh,  inhering  claims  of  home 

That  held  him  while  he  cursed  and  wondered. 

Another  day,  and  then  there  came, 
Rough,  bloody,  ribald,  hungry,  lame, 
But  yet  themselves,  to  Levi's  door, 
Two  remnants  of  the  day  before. 
They  laughed  at  him  and  what  he  sought; 
They  jeered  him,  and  his  painful  acre; 
But  Levi  knew  that  they  had  fought, 
And  left  their  manners  to  their  Maker. 

That  night,  for  the  grim  widow's  ears, 
With  hopes  that  hid  themselves  in  fears, 
He  told  of  arms,  and  fiery  deeds, 
Whereat  one  leaps  the  while  he  reads, 
231 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  said  he'd  be  no  more  a  clown, 
While  others  drew  the  breath  of  battle. — 
The  mother  looked  him  up  and  down, 
And  laughed — a  scant  laugh  with  a  rattle. 

She  told  him  what  she  found  to  tell, 

And  Levi  listened,  and  heard  well 

Some  admonitions  of  a  voice 

That  left  him  no  cause  to  rejoice. — 

He  sought  a  friend,  and  found  the  stars, 

And  prayed  aloud  that  they  should  aid  him ; 

But  they  said  not  a  word  of  wars, 

Or  of  a  reason  why  God  made  him. 

And  who's  of  this  or  that  estate 
We  do  not  wholly  calculate, 
When  baffling  shades  that  shift  and  cling 
Are  not  without  their  glimmering; 
When  even  Levi,  tired  of  faith, 
Beloved  of  none,  forgot  by  many, 
Dismissed  as  an  inferior  wraith, 
Reborn  may  be  as  great  as  any. 


MERLIN 

(1917) 
To  George  Burnham 


MERLIN 
I 


"GAWAINE,  GAWAINE,  what  look  ye  for  to  see, 
So  far  beyond  the  faint  edge  of  the  world? 
D'ye  look  to  see  the  lady  Vivian, 
Pursued  by  divers  ominous  vile  demons 
That  have  another  king  more  fierce  than  ours? 
Or  think  ye  that  if  ye  look  far  enough 
And  hard  enough  into  the  feathery  west 
Ye'll  have  a  glimmer  of  the  Grail  itself? 
And  if  ye  look  for  neither  Grail  nor  lady, 
What  look  ye  for  to  see,  Gawaine,  Gawaine?" 


So  Dagonet,  whom  Arthur  made  a  knight 
Because  he  loved  him  as  he  laughed  at  him, 
Intoned  his  idle  presence  on  a  day 
To  Gawaine,  who  had  thought  himself  alone, 
Had  there  been  in  him  thought  of  anything 
Save  what  was  murmured  now  in  Camelot 
Of  Merlin's  hushed  and  all  but  unconfirmed 
Appearance  out  of  Brittany.    It  was  heard 
At  first  there  was  a  ghost  in  Arthur's  palace, 
But  soon  among  the  scullions  and  anon 
Among  the  knights  a  firmer  credit  held 
All  tongues  from  uttering  what  all  glances  told — 
Though  not  for  long.     Gawaine,  this  pfternoon, 
Fearing  he  might  say  more  to  Lancelot 
235 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Of  Merlin's  rumor-laden  resurrection 

Than  Lancelot  would  have  an  ear  to  cherish, 

Had  sauntered  off  with  his  imagination 

To  Merlin's  Eock,  where  now  there  was  no  Merlin 

To  meditate  upon  a  whispering  town 

Below  him  in  the  silence. — Once  he  said 

To  Gawaine:     "You  are  young;  and  that  being  so, 

Behold  the  shining  city  of  our  dreams 

And  of  our  King." — "Long  live  the  King,"  said  Gawaine. 

"Long  live  the  King,"  said  Merlin  after  him; 

"Better  for  me  that  I  shall  not  be  King ; 

Wherefore  I  say  again,  Long  live  the  King, 

And  add,  God  save  him,  also,  and  all  kings — 

All  kings  and  queens.    I  speak  in  general. 

Kings  have  I  known  that  were  but  weary  men 

With  no  stout  appetite  for  more  than  peace 

That  was  not  made  for  them." — "Nor  were  they  made 

For  kings,"  Gawaine  said,  laughing. — "You  are  young, 

Gawaine,  and  you  may  one  day  hold  the  world 

Between  your  fingers,  knowing  not  what  it  is 

That  you  are  holding.    Better  for  you  and  me, 

I  think,  that  we  shall  not  be  kings." 


Gawaine, 

Remembering  Merlin's  words  of  long  ago, 
Frowned  as  he  thought,  and  having  frowned  again, 
He  smiled  and  threw  an  acorn  at  a  lizard : 
"There's  more  afoot  and  in  the  air  to-day 
Than  what  is  good  for  Camelot.    Merlin 
May  or  may  not  know  all,  but  he  said  well 
To  say  to  me  that  he  would  not  be  King. 
Nor  more  would  I  be  King."    Far  down  he  gazed 
On  Camelot,  until  he  made  of  it 
A  phantom  town  of  many  stillnesses, 

236 


MERLIN 

Not  reared  for  men  to  dwell  in,  or  for  kings 

To  reign  in,  without  omens  and  obscure 

Familiars  to  bring  terror  to  their  days; 

For  though  a  knight,  and  one  as  hard  at  arms 

As  any,  save  the  fate-begotten  few 

That  all  acknowledged  or  in  envy  loathed, 

He  felt  a  foreign  sort  of  creeping  up 

And  down  him,  as  of  moist  things  in  the  dark,- 

When  Dagonet,  coming  on  him  unawares, 

Presuming  on  his  title  of  Sir  Fool, 

Addressed  him  and  crooned  on  till  he  was  done: 

"What  look  ye  for  to  see,  Gawaine,  Gawaine?" 

"Sir  Dagonet,  you  best  and  wariest 

Of  all  dishonest  men,  I  look  through  Time, 

For  sight  of  what  it  is  that  is  to  be. 

I  look  to  see  it,  though  I  see  it  not. 

I  see  a  town  down  there  that  holds  a  king, 

And  over  it  I  see  a  few  small  clouds — 

Like  feathers  in  the  west,  as  you  observe; 

And  I  shall  see  no  more  this  afternoon 

Than  what  there  is  around  us  every  day, 

Unless  you  have  a  skill  that  I  have  not 

To  ferret  the  invisible  for  rats." 

"If  you  see  what's  around  us  every  day, 

You  need  no  other  showing  to  go  mad. 

Remember  that  and  take  it  home  with  you; 

And  say  tonight,  'I  had  it  of  a  fool — 

With  no  immediate  obliquity 

For  this  one  or  for  that  one,  or  for  me.' " 

Gawaine,  having  risen,  eyed  the  fool  curiously : 

"I'll  not  forget  I  had  it  of  a  knight, 

Whose  only  folly  is  to  fool  himself; 

And  as  for  making  other  men  to  laugh, 

237 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  so  forget  their  sins  and  selves  a  little, 
There's  no  great  folly  there.    So  keep  it  up, 
As  long  as  you've  a  legend  or  a  song, 
And  have  whatever  sport  of  us  you  like 
Till  havoc  is  the  word  and  we  fall  howling. 
For  I've  a  guess  there  may  not  be  so  loud 
A  sound  of  laughing  here  in  Camelot 
When  Merlin  goes  again  to  his  gay  grave 
In  Brittany.    To  mention  lesser  terrors, 
Men  say  his  beard  is  gone." 

"Do  men  say  that?" 
A  twitch  of  an  impatient  weariness 
Played  for  a  moment  over  the  lean  face 
Of  Dagonet,  who  reasoned  inwardly: 
"The  friendly  zeal  of  this  inquiring  knight 
Will  overtake  his  tact  and  leave  it  squealing, 
One  of  these  days." — Gawaine  looked  hard  at  him: 
"If  I  be  too  familiar  with  a  fool, 
I'm  on  the  way  to  be  another  fool," 
He  mused,  and  owned  a  rueful  qualm  within  him : 
"Yes,  Dagonet,"  he  ventured,  with  a  laugh, 
"Men  tell  me  that  his  beard  has  vanished  wholly, 
And  that  he  shines  now  as  the  Lord's  anointed, 
And  wears  the  valiance  of  an  ageless  youth 
Crowned  with  a  glory  of  eternal  peace." 

Dagonet,  smiling  strangely,  shook  his  head: 
"I  grant  your  valiance  of  a  kind  of  youth 
To  Merlin,  but  your  crown  of  peace  I  question; 
For,  though  I  know  no  more  than  any  churl 
Who  pinches  any  chambermaid  soever 
In  the  King's  palace,  I  look  not  to  Merlin 
For  peace,  when  out  of  his  peculiar  tomb  - 
He  comes  again  to  Camelot.    Time  swings 


MERLIN 

A  mighty  scythe,  and  some  day  all  your  peace 
Goes  down  before  its  edge  like  so  much  clover. 
No,  it  is  not  for  peace  that  Merlin  comes, 
Without  a  trumpet — and  without  a  beard, 
If  what  you  say  men  say  of  him  be  true — 
Nor  yet  for  sudden  war." 

Gawaine,  for  a  moment, 
Met  then  the  ambiguous  gaze  of  Dagonet, 
And,  making  nothing  of  it,  looked  abroad 
As  if  at  something  cheerful  on  all  sides, 
And  back  again  to  the  fool's  unasking  eyes : 
"Well,  Dagonet,  if  Merlin  would  have  peace, 
Let  Merlin  stay  away  from  Brittany," 
Said  he,  with  admiration  for  the  man 
Whom  Folly  called  a  fool:     "And  we  have  known  him; 
We  knew  him  once  when  he  knew  everything." 

"He  knew  as  much  as  God  would  let  him  know 
Until  he  met  the  lady  Vivian. 
I  tell  you  that,  for  the  world  knows  all  that; 
Also  it  knows  he  told  the  King  one  day 
That  he  was  to  be  buried,  and  alive, 
In  Brittany;  and  that  the  King  should  see 
The  face  of  him  no  more.    Then  Merlin  sailed 
Away  to  Yivian  in  Broceliande, 

Where  now  she  crowns  him  and  herself  with  flowers 
And  feeds  him  fruits  and  wines  and  many  foods 
Of  many  savors,  and  sweet  ortolans. 
Wise  books  of  every  lore  of  every  land 
Are  there  to  fill  his  days,  if  he  require  them, 
And  there  are  players  of  all  instruments — 
Flutes,  hautboys,  drums,  and  viols ;  and  she  sings 
To  Merlin,  till  he  trembles  in  her  arms 

239 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  there  forgets  that  any  town  alive 

Had  ever  such  a  name  as  Camelot. 

So  Vivian  holds  him  with  her  love,  they  say, 

And  he,  who  has  no  age,  has  not  grown  old. 

I  swear  to  nothing,  but  that's  what  they  say. 

That's  being  buried  in  Broceliande 

For  too  much  wisdom  and  clairvoyancy. 

But  you  and  all  who  live,  Gawaine,  have  heard 

This  tale,  or  many  like  it,  more  than  once; 

And  you  must  know  that  Love,  when  Love  invites 

Philosophy  to  play,  plays  high  and  wins, 

Or  low  and  loses.    And  you  say  to  me, 

'If  Merlin  would  have  peace,  let  Merlin  stay 

Away  from  Brittany.'     Gawaine,  you  are  young, 

And  Merlin's  in  his  grave." 

"Merlin  said  once 

That  I  was  young,  and  it's  a  joy  for  me 
That  I  am  here  to  listen  while  you  say  it. 
Young  or  not  young,  if  that  be  burial, 
May  I  be  buried  long  before  I  die. 
I  might  be  worse  than  young;  I  might  be  old." — 
Dagonet  answered,  and  without  a  smile: 
"Somehow  I  fancy  Merlin  saying  that; 
A  fancy — a  mere  fancy."    Then  he  smiled: 
"And  such  a  doom  as  his  may  be  for  you, 
Gawaine,  should  your  untiring  divination 
Delve  in  the  veiled  eternal  mysteries 
Too  far  to  be  a  pleasure  for  the  Lord. 
And  when  you  stake  your  wisdom  for  a  woman, 
Compute  the  woman  to  be  worth  a  grave, 
As  Merlin  did,  and  say  no  more  about  it. 
But  Yivian,  she  played  high.     Oh,  very  high! 
Flutes,  hautboys,  drums,  and  viols, — and  her  love. 
Gawaine,  farewell." 

240 


MERLIN 

"Farewell,  Sir  Dagonet, 
And  may  the  devil  take  you  presently." 
He  followed  with  a  vexed  and  envious  eye, 
And  with  an  arid  laugh,  Sir  Dagonet's 
Departure,  till  his  gaunt  obscurity 
Was  cloaked  and  lost  amid  the  glimmering  trees. 
"Poor  fool !"  he  murmured.    "Or  am  I  the  fool  ? 
With  all  my  fast  ascendency  in  arms, 
That  ominous  clown  is  nearer  to  the  King 
Than  I  am — yet;  and  God  knows  what  he  knows, 
And  what  his  wits  infer  from  what  he  sees 
And  feels  and  hears.    I  wonder  what  he  knows 
Of  Lancelot,  or  what  I  might  know  now, 
Could  I  have  sunk  myself  to  sound  a  fool 
To  springe  a  friend.  .  .  .  No,  I  like  not  this  day. 
There's  a  cloud  coming  over  Camelot 
Larger  than  any  that  is  in  the  sky, — 
Or  Merlin  would  be  still  in  Brittany, 
With  Vivian  and  the  viols.    It's  all  too  strange." 

And  later,  when  descending  to  the  city, 

Through  unavailing  casements  he  could  hear 

The  roaring  of  a  mighty  voice  within, 

Confirming  fervidly  his  own  conviction : 

"It's  all  too  strange,  and  half  the  world's  half  crazy  !"- 

He  scowled:    "Well,  I  agree  with  Lamorak." 

He  frowned,  and  passed:     "And  I  like  not  this  day." 


II 


SIR  LAMORAK,  the  man  of  oak  and  iron, 
Had  with  him  now,  as  a  care-laden  guest, 
Sir  Bedivere,  a  man  whom  Arthur  loved 
As  he  had  loved  no  man  save  Lancelot. 

241 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Like  one  whose  late-flown  shaft  of  argument 

Had  glanced  and  fallen  afield  innocuously, 

He  turned  upon  his  host  a  sudden  eye 

That  met  from  Lamorak's  an  even  shaft 

Of  native  and  unused  authority; 

And  each  man  held  the  other  till  at  length 

Each  turned  away,  shutting  his  heavy  jaws 

Again  together,  prisoning  thus  two  tongues 

That  might  forget  and  might  not  be  forgiven. 

Then  Bedivere,  to  find  a  plain  way  out, 

Said,  "Lamorak,  let  us  drink  to  some  one  here, 

And  end  this  dryness.    Who  shall  it  be — the  King, 

The  Queen,  or  Lancelot?" — "Merlin,"  Lamorak  growled; 

And  then  there  were  more  wrinkles  round  his  eyes 

Than  Bedivere  had  said  were  possible. 

"There's  no  refusal  in  me  now  for  that," 

The  guest  replied;  "so,  'Merlin'  let  it  be. 

We've  not  yet  seen  him,  but  if  he  be  here, 

And  even  if  he  should  not  be  here,  say  'Merlin.' " 

They  drank  to  the  unseen  from  two  new  tankards, 

And  fell  straightway  to  sighing  for  the  past, 

And  what  was  yet  before  them.    Silence  laid 

A  cogent  finger  on  the  lips  of  each 

Impatient  veteran,  whose  hard  hands  lay  clenched 

And  restless  on  his  midriff,  until  words 

Were  stronger  than  strong  Lamorak: 

"Bedivere," 

Began  the  solid  host,  ''you  may  as  well 
Say  now  as  at  another  time  hereafter 
That  all  your  certainties  have  bruises  on  'em, 
And  all  your  pestilent  asseverations 
Will  never  make  a  man  a  salamander — 
Who's  born,  as  we  are  told,  so  fire  won't  bite  him, — 
Or  a  slippery  queen  a  nun  who  counts  and  burns 

242 


MERLIN 

Herself  to  nothing  with  her  beads  and  candles. 

There's  nature,  and  what's  in  us,  to  be  sifted 

Before  we  know  ourselves,  or  any  man 

Or  woman  that  God  suffers  to  be  born. 

That's  how  I  speak ;  and  while  you  strain  your  mazard, 

Like  Father  Jove,  big  with  a  new  Minerva, 

We'll  say,  to  pass  the  time,  that  I  speak  well. 

God's  fish!     The  King  had  eyes;  and  Lancelot 

Won't  ride  home  to  his  mother,  for  she's  dead. 

The  story  is  that  Merlin  warned  the  King 

Of  what's  come  now  to  pass ;  and  I  believe  it 

And  Arthur,  he  being  Arthur  and  a  king, 

Has  made  a  more  pernicious  mess  than  one, 

We're  told,  for  being  so  great  and  amorous: 

It's  that  unwholesome  and  inclement  cub 

Young  Modred  I'd  see  first  in  hell  before 

I'd  hang  too  high  the  Queen  or  Lancelot; 

The  King,  if  one  may  say  it,  set  the  pace, 

And  we've  two  strapping  bastards  here  to  prove  it. 

Young  Borre,  he's  well  enough;  but  as  for  Modred, 

I  squirm  as  often  as  I  look  at  him. 

And  there  again  did  Merlin  warn  the  King, 

The  story  goes  abroad;  and  I  believe  it." 

Sir  Bedivere,  as  one  who  caught  no  more 
Than  what  he  would  of  Lamorak's  outpouring, 
Inclined  his  grizzled  head  and  closed  his  eyes 
Before  he  sighed  and  rubbed  his  beard  and  spoke: 
"For  all  I  know  to  make  it  otherwise, 
The  Queen  may  be  a  nun  some  day  or  other; 
I'd  pray  to  God  for  such  a  thing  to  be, 
If  prayer  for  that  were  not  a  mockery. 
We're  late  now  for  much  praying,  Lamorak, 
When  you  and  I  can  feel  upon  our  faces 
A  wind  that  has  been  blowing  over  ruins 

243 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  we  had  said  were  castles  and  high  towers — 

Till  Merlin,  or  the  spirit  of  him,  came 

As  the  dead  come  in  dreams.    I  saw  the  King 

This  morning,  and  I  saw  his  face.    Therefore, 

I  tell  you,  if  a  state  shall  have  a  king, 

The  king  must  have  the  state,  and  be  the  state;    ?• 

Or  then  shall  we  have  neither  king  nor  state, 

But  bones  and  ashes,  and  high  towers  all  fallen: 

And  we  shall  have,  where  late  there  was  a  kingdom, 

A  dusty  wreck  of  what  was  once  a  glory — 

A  wilderness  whereon  to  crouch  and  mourn 

And  moralize,  or  else  to  build  once  more 

For  something  better  or  for  something  worse. 

Therefore  again,  I  say  that  Lancelot 

Has  wrought  a  potent  wrong  upon  the  King, 

And  all  who  serve  and  recognize  the  King, 

And  all  who  follow  him  and  all  who  love  him. 

Whatever  the  stormy  faults  he  may  have  had, 

To  look  on  him  today  is  to  forget  them; 

And  if  it  be  too  late  for  sorrow  now 

To  save  him — for  it  was  a  broken  man 

I  saw  this  morning,  and  a  broken  king — 

The  God  who  sets  a  day  for  desolation 

Will  not  forsake  him  in  Avilion, 

Or  whatsoever  shadowy  land  there  be 

Where  peace  awaits  him  on  its  healing  shores." 

Sir  Lamorak,  shifting  in  his  oaken  chair, 
Growled  like  a  dog  and  shook  himself  like  one: 
"For  the  stone-chested,  helmet-cracking  knight 
That  you  are  known  to  be  from  Lyonnesse 
To  northward,  Bedivere,  you  fol-de-rol 
When  days  are  rancid,  and  you  fiddle-faddle 
More  like  a  woman  than  a  man  with  hands 
Fit  for  the  smiting  of  a  crazy  giant 

244 


MERLIN 

With  armor  an  inch  thick,  as  we  all  know 

You  are,  when  you're  not  sermonizing  at  us. 

As  for  the  King,  I  say  the  King,  no  doubt, 

Is  angry,  sorry,  and  all  sorts  of  things, 

For  Lancelot,  and  for  his  easy  Queen, 

Whom  he  took  knowing  she'd  thrown  sparks  already 

On  that  same  piece  of  tinder,  Lancelot, 

Who  fetched  her  with  him  from  Leodogran 

Because  the  King — God  save  poor  human  reason! — 

Would  prove  to  Merlin,  who  knew  everything 

Worth  knowing  in  those  days,  that  he  was  wrong. 

I'll  drink  now  and  be  quiet, — but,  by  God, 

I'll  have  to  tell  you,  Brother  Bedivere, 

Once  more,  to  make  you  listen  properly, 

That  crowns  and  orders,  and  high  palaces, 

And  all  the  manifold  ingredients 

Of  this  good  solid  kingdom,  where  we  sit 

And  spit  now  at  each  other  with  our  eyes, 

Will  not  go  rolling  down  to  hell  just  yet 

Because  a  pretty  woman  is  a  fool. 

And  here's  Kay  coming  with  his  fiddle  face 

As  long  now  as  two  fiddles.    Sit  ye  down, 

Sir  Man,  and  tell  us  everything  you  know 

Of  Merlin — or  his  ghost  without  a  beard. 

What  mostly  is  it?" 

Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 
Sat  wearily  while  he  gazed  upon  the  two : 
"To  you  it  mostly  is,  if  I  err  not, 
That  what  you  hear  of  Merlin's  coming  back 
Is  nothing  more  or  less  than  heavy  truth. 
But  ask  me  nothing  of  the  Queen,  I  say, 
For  I  know  nothing.    All  I  know  of  her 
Is  what  her  eyes  have  told  the  silences 
That  now  attend  her;  and  that  her  estate 

245 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Is  one  for  less  complacent  execration 
Than  quips  and  innuendoes  of  the  city 
Would  augur  for  her  sin — if  there  be  sin — 
Or  for  her  name — if  now  she  have  a  name. 
And  where,  I  say,  is  this  to  lead  the  King, 
And  after  him,  the  kingdom  and  ourselves? 
Here  be  we,  three  men  of  a  certain  strength 
And  some  confessed  intelligence,  who  know 
That  Merlin  has  come  out  of  Brittany — 
Out  of  his  grave,  as  he  would  say  it  for  us — 
Because  the  King  has  now  a  desperation 
More  strong  upon  him  than  a  woman's  net 
Was  over  Merlin — for  now  Merlin's  here, 
And  two  of  us  who  knew  him  know  how  well 
His  wisdom,  if  he  have  it  any  longer, 
Will  by  this  hour  have  sounded  and  appraised 
The  grief  and  wrath  and  anguish  of  the  King, 
Requiring  mercy  and  inspiring  fear 
Lest  he  forego  the  vigil  now  most  urgent, 
And  leave  unwatched  a  cranny  where  some  worm 
Or  serpent  may  come  in  to  speculate." 


"I  know  your  worm,  and  his  worm's  name  is  Modred- 
Albeit  the  streets  are  not  yet  saying  so," 
Said  Lamorak,  as  he  lowered  his  wrath  and  laughed 
A  sort  of  poisonous  apology 
To  Kay :    "And  in  the  meantime,  I'll  be  gyved  1 
Here's  Bedivere  a-wailing  for  the  King, 
And  you,  Kay,  with  a  moist  eye  for  the  Queen. 
I  think  I'll  blow  a  horn  for  Lancelot ; 
For  by  my  soul  a  man's  in  sorry  case 
When  Guineveres  are  out  with  eyes  to  scorch  him: 
I'm  not  so  ancient  or  so  frozen  certain 
That  I'd  ride  horses  down  to  skeletons 

246 


MERLIN 

If  she  were  after  me.    Has  Merlin  seen  him — 
This  Lancelot,  this  Queen-fed  friend  of  ours?" 

Kay  answered  sighing,  with  a  lonely  scowl: 
"The  picture  that  I  conjure  leaves  him  out; 
The  King  and  Merlin  are  this  hour  together, 
And  I  can  say  no  more;  for  I  know  nothing. 
But  how  the  King  persuaded  or  beguiled 
The  stricken  wizard  from  across  the  water 
Outriddles  my  poor  wits.     It's  all  too  strange." 

"It's  all  too  strange,  and  half  the  world's  half  crazy  ["— 

Roared  Lamorak,  forgetting  once  again 

The  devastating  carriage  of  his  voice. 

"Is  the  King  sick?"  he  said,  more  quietly; 

"Is  he  to  let  one  damned  scratch  be  enough 

To  paralyze  the  force  that  heretofore 

Would  operate  a  way  through  hell  and  iron, 

And  iron  already  slimy  with  his  blood? 

Is  the  King  blind — with  Modred  watching  him? 

Does  he  forget  the  crown  for  Lancelot? 

Does  he  forget  that  every  woman  mewing 

Shall  some  day  be  a  handful  of  small  ashes  ?" 

"You  speak  as  one  for  whom  the  god  of  Love 
Has  yet  a  mighty  trap  in  preparation. 
We  know  you,  Lamorak,"  said  Bedivere: 
"We  know  you  for  a  short  man,  Lamorak, — 
In  deeds,  if  not  in  inches  or  in  words; 
But  there  are  fens  and  heights  and  distances 
That  your  capricious  ranging  has  not  yet 
Essayed  in  this  weird  region  of  man's  love. 
Forgive  me,  Lamorak,  but  your  words  are  words.  . 
Your  deeds  are  what  they  are;  and  ages  hence 
Will  men  remember  your  illustriousness, 

247 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

If  there  be  gratitude  in  history. 
For  me,  I  see  the  shadow  of  the  end, 
Wherein  to  serve  King  Arthur  to  the  end, 
And,  if  God  have  it  so,  to  see  the  Grail 
Before  I  die." 

But  Laniorak  shook  his  head: 
"See  what  you  will,  or  what  you  may.    For  me, 
I  see  no  other  than  a  stinking  mess — 
With  Modred  stirring  it,  and  Agravaine 
Spattering  Camelot  with  as  much  of  it 
As  he  can  throw.     The  Devil  got  somehow 
Into  God's  workshop  once  upon  a  time, 
And  out  of  the  red  clay  that  he  found  there 
He  made  a  shape  like  Modred,  and  another 
As  like  as  eyes  are  to  this  Agravaine. 
'I  never  made  'em,'  said  the  good  Lord  God, 
'But  let  'em  go,  and  see  what  comes  of  'em.' 
And  that's  what  we're  to  do.    As  for  the  Grail, 
I've  never  worried  it,  and  so  the  Grail 
Has  never  worried  me." 

Kay  sighed.     "I  see 
With  Bedivere  the  coming  of  the  end," 
He  murmured;  "for  the  King  I  saw  today 
Was  not,  nor  shall  he  ever  he  again, 
The  King  we  knew.     I  say  the  King  is  dead; 
The  man  is  living,  but  the  King  is  dead. 
The  wheel  is  broken." 

"Faugh!"  said  Lamorak; 
"There  are  no  dead  kings  yet  in  Camelot; 
But  there  is  Modred  who  is  hatching  ruin, — 
And  when  it  hatches  I  may  not  be  here. 
There's  Gawaine  too,  and  he  does  not  forget 

248 


MERLIN 

My  father,  who  killed  his.     King  Arthur's  house 

Has  more  divisions  in  it  than  I  like 

In  houses;  and  if  Modred's  aim  be  good 

For  backs  like  mine,  I'm  not  long  for  the  scene." 

Ill 

KING  ARTHUR,  as  he  paced  a  lonely  floor 

That  rolled  a  muffled  echo,  as  he  fancied, 

All  through  the  palace  and  out  through  the  world, 

Might  now  have  wondered  hard,  could  he  have  heard 

Sir  Lamorak's  apathetic  disregard 

Of  what  Fate's  knocking  made  so  manifest 

And  ominous  to  others  near  the  King — 

If  any,  indeed,  were  near  him  at  this  hour 

Save  Merlin,  once  the  wisest  of  all  men, 

And  weary  Dagonet,  whom  he  had  made 

A  knight  for  love  of  him  and  his  abused 

Integrity.     He  might  have  wondered  hard 

And  wondered  much;  and  after  wondering, 

He  might  have  summoned,  with  as  little  heart 

As  he  had  now  for  crowns,  the  fond,  lost  Merlin, 

Whose  Nemesis  had  made  of  him  a  slave, 

A  man  of  dalliance,  and  a  sybarite. 

"Men  change  in  Brittany,  Merlin,"  said  the  King; 

And  even  his  grief  had  strife  to  freeze  again 

A  dreary  smile  for  the  transmuted  seer 

Now  robed  in  heavy  wealth  of  purple  silk, 

With  frogs  and  foreign  tassels.     On  his  face, 

Too  smooth  now  for  a  wizard  or  a  sage, 

Lay  written,  for  the  King's  remembering  eyes, 

A  pathos  of  a  lost  authority 

Long  faded,  and  unconscionably  gone; 

And  on  the  King's  heart  lay  a  sudden  cold: 

249 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"I  might  as  well  have  left  him  in  his  grave, 
As  he  would  say  it,  saying  what  was  true, — 
As  death  is  true.    This  Merlin  is  not  mine, 
But  Vivian's.    My  crown  is  less  than  hers, 
And  I  am  less  than  woman  to  this  man." 

Then  Merlin,  as  one  reading  Arthur's  words 
On  viewless  tablets  in  the  air  before  him: 
"Now,  Arthur,  since  you  are  a  child  of  mine- 
A  foster-child,  and  that's  a  kind  of  child — 
Be  not  from  hearsay  or  despair  too  eager 
To  dash  your  meat  with  bitter  seasoning, 
So  none  that  are  more  famished  than  yourself 
Shall  have  what  you  refuse.    For  you  are  King, 
And  if  you  starve  yourself,  you  starve  the  state; 
And  then  by  sundry  looks  and  silences 
Of  those  you  loved,  and  by  the  lax  regard 
Of  those  you  knew  for  fawning  enemies, 
You  may  learn  soon  that  you  are  King  no  more, 
But  a  slack,  blasted,  and  sad-fronted  man, 
Made  sadder  with  a  crown.     No  other  friend 
Than  I  could  say  this  to  you,  and  say  more; 
And  if  you  bid  me  say  no  more,  so  be  it." 

The  King,  who  sat  with  folded  arms,  now  bowed 
His  head  and  felt,  unfought  and  all  aflame 
Like  immanent  hell-fire,  the  wretchedness 
That  only  those  who  are  to  lead  may  feel — 
And  only  they  when  they  are  maimed  and  worn 
Too  sore  to  covet  without  shuddering 
The  fixed  impending  eminence  where  death 
Itself  were  victory,  could  they  but  lead 
TJnbitten  by  the  serpents  they  had  fed. 
Turning,  he  spoke :    "Merlin,  you  say  the  truth : 
There  is  no  man  who  could  say  more  to  me 

250 


MERLIN 

Today,  or  say  so  much  to  me,  and  live. 

But  you  are  Merlin  still,  or  part  of  him ; 

I  did  you  wrong  when  I  thought  otherwise, 

And  I  am  sorry  now.     Say  what  you  will. 

We  are  alone,  and  I  shall  be  alone 

As  long  as  Time  shall  hide  a  reason  here 

For  me  to  stay  in  this  infested  world 

Where  I  have  sinned  and  erred  and  heeded  not 

Your  counsel;  and  where  you  yourself — God  save  us!- 

Have  gone  down  smiling  to  the  smaller  life 

That  you  and  your  incongruous  laughter  called 

Your  living  grave.     God  save  us  all,  Merlin, 

When  you,  the  seer,  the  founder,  and  the  prophet, 

May  throw  the  gold  of  your  immortal  treasure 

Back  to  the  God  that  gave  it,  and  then  laugh 

Because  a  woman  has  you  in  her  arms  .  .  . 

Why  do  you  sting  me  now  with  a  small  hive 

Of  words  that  are  all  poison  ?    I  do  not  ask 

Much  honey;  but  why  poison  me  for  nothing, 

And  with  a  venom  that  I  know  already 

As  I  know  crowns  and  wars?    Why  tell  a  king — 

A  poor,  foiled,  flouted,  miserable  king — 

That  if  he  lets  rats  eat  his  fingers  off 

He'll  have  no  fingers  to  fight  battles  with? 

I  know  as  much  as  that,  for  I  am  still 

A  king — who  thought  himself  a  little  less 

Than  God ;  a  king  who  built  him  palaces 

On  sand  and  mud,  and  hears  them  crumbling  now,    / 

And  sees  them  tottering,  as  he  knew  they  must.         W 

You  are  the  man  who  made  me  to  be  King — 

Therefore,  say  anything."  \ 

Merlin,  stricken  deep 

With  pity  that  was  old,  being  born  of  old 
Foreshadowings,  made  answer  to  the  King: 

251 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"This  coil  of  Lancelot  and  Guinevere 
Is  not  for  any  mortal  to  undo, 
Or  to  deny,  or  to  make  otherwise; 
But  your  most  violent  years  are  on  their  way 
To  days,  and  to  a  sounding  of  loud  hours 
That  are  to  strike  for  war.    Let  not  the  time 
Between  this  hour  and  then  be  lost  in  fears, 
Or  told  in  obscurations  and  vain  faith 
In  what  has  been  your  long  security; 
For  should  your  force  be  slower  then  than  hate, 
And  your  regret  be  sharper  than  your  sight, 
And  your  remorse  fall  heavier  than  your  sword,- 
Then  say  farewell  to  Camelot,  and  the  crown. 
But  say  not  you  have  lost,  or  failed  in  aught 
Your  golden  horoscope  of  imperfection 
Has  held  in  starry  words  that  I  have  read. 
I  see  no  farther  now  than  I  saw  then, 
For  no  man  shall  be  given  of  everything 
Together  in  one  life ;  yet  I  may  say 
The  time  is  imminent  when  he  shall  come 
For  whom  I  founded  the  Siege  Perilous; 
And  he  shall  be  too  much  a  living  part 
Of  what  he  brings,  and  what  he  burns  away  in, 
To  be  for  long  a  vexed  inhabitant 
Of  this  mad  realm  of  stains  and  lower  trials. 
And  here  the  ways  of  God  again  are  mixed: 
For  this  new  knight  who  is  to  find  the  Grail 
For  you,  and  for  the  least  who  pray  for  you 
In  such  lost  coombs  and  hollows  of  the  world 
As  you  have  never  entered,  is  to  be 
The  son  of  him  you  trusted — Lancelot, 
Of  all  who  ever  jeopardized  a  throne 
Sure  the  most  evil-fated,  saving  one, 
Your  son,  begotten,  though  you  knew  not  then 
Your  leman  was  your  sister,  of  Morgause; 

252 


MERLIN 

For  it  is  Modred  now,  not  Lancelot, 

Whose  native  hate  plans  your  annihilation — 

Though  he  may  smile  till  he  be  sick,  and  swear 

Allegiance  to  an  unforgiven  father 

Until  at  last  he  shake  an  empty  tongue 

Talked  out  with  too  much  lying — though  his  lies 

Will  have  a  truth  to  steer  them.    Trust  him  not, 

For  unto  you  the  father,  he  the  son 

Is  like  enough  to  be  the  last  of  terrors — 

If  in  a  field  of  time  that  looms  to  you 

Far  larger  than  it  is  you  fail  to  plant 

And  harvest  the  old  seeds  of  what  I  say, 

And  so  be  nourished  and  adept  again 

For  what  may  come  to  be.    But  Lancelot 

Will  have  you  first;  and  you  need  starve  no  more 

For  the  Queen's  love,  the  love  that  never  was. 

Your  Queen  is  now  your  Kingdom,  and  hereafter 

Let  no  man  take  it  from  you,  or  you  die. 

Let  no  man  take  it  from  you  for  a  day; 

For  days  are  long  when  we  are  far  from  what 

We  love,  and  mischiefs  other  name  is  distance. 

Let  .hat  be  all,  for  I  can  say  no  more; 

Not  even  to  Blaise  the  Hermit,  were  he  living, 

Could  I  say  more  than  I  have  given  you  now 

To  hear;  and  he  alone  was  my  confessor." 

The  King  arose  and  paced  the  floor  again. 
"I  get  gray  comfort  of  dark  words,"  he  said; 
"But  tell  me  not  that  you  can  say  no  more: 
You  can,  for  I  can  hear  you  saying  it. 
Yet  I'll  not  ask  for  more.     I  have  enough — 
Until  my  new  knight  comes  to  prove  and  find 
The  promise  and  the  glory  of  the  Grail, 
Though  I  shall  see  no  Grail.    For  I  have  built 
On  sand  and  mud,  and  I  shall  see  no  Grail." — 

253 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Nor  I,"  said  Merlin.     "Once  I  dreamed  of  it, 
But  I  was  buried.    I  shall  see  no  Grail, 
Nor  would  I  have  it  otherwise.     I  saw 
Too  much,  and  that  was  never  good  for  man. 
The  man  who  goes  alone  too  far  goes  mad — 
In  one  way  or  another.    God  knew  best, 
And  he  knows  what  is  coming  yet  for  me. 
I  do  not  ask.    Like  you,  I  have  enough." 

That  night  King  Arthur's  apprehension  found 
In  Merlin  an  obscure  and  restive  guest, 
Whose  only  thought  was  on  the  hour  of  dawn, 
When  he  should  see  the  last  of  Camelot 
And  ride  again  for  Brittany;  and  what  words 
Were  said  before  the  King  was  left  alone 
Were  only  darker  for  reiteration. 
They  parted,  all  provision  made  secure 
For  Merlin's  early  convoy  to  the  coast, 
And  Arthur  tramped  the  past.    The  loneliness 
Of  kings,  around  him  like  the  unseen  dead, 
Lay  everywhere;  and  he  was  loath  to  move, 
As  if  in  fear  to  meet  with  his  cold  hand 
The  touch  of  something  colder.    Then  a  whim, 
Begotten  of  intolerable  doubt, 
Seized  him  and  stung  him  until  he  was  asking 
If  any  longer  lived  among  his  knights 
A  man  to  trust  as  once  he  trusted  all, 
And  Lancelot  more  than  all.    "And  it  is  he 
Who  is  to  have  me  first,"  so  Merlin  says, — 
"As  if  he  had  me  not  in  hell  already. 
Lancelot!    Lancelot!"    He  cursed  the  tears 
That  cooled  his  misery,  and  then  he  asked 
Himself  again  if  he  had  one  to  trust 
Among  his  knights,  till  even  Bedivere, 
Tor,  Bors,  and  Percival,  rough  Lamorak, 

254 


MERLIN 

Griflet,  and  Gareth,  and  gay  Gawaine,  all 
Were  dubious  knaves, — or  they  were  like  to  be, 
For  cause  to  make  them  so ;  and  he  had  made 
Himself  to  be  the  cause.     "God  set  me  right, 
Before  this  folly  carry  me  on  farther," 
He  murmured;  and  he  smiled  unhappily, 
Though  fondly,  as  he  thought:     "Yes,  there  is  one 
Whom  I  may  trust  with  even  my  soul's  last  shred; 
And  Dagonet  will  sing  for  me  tonight 
An  old  song,  not  too  merry  or  too  sad." 

When  Dagonet,  having  entered,  stood  before 

The  King  as  one  affrighted,  the  King  smiled : 

"You  think  because  I  call  for  you  so  late 

That  I  am  angry,  Dagonet?    Why  so? 

Have  you  been  saying  what  I  say  to  you, 

And  telling  men  that  you  brought  Merlin  here? 

No  ?    So  I  fancied ;  and  if  you  report 

No  syllable  of  anything  I  speak, 

You  will  have  no   regrets,   and  I  no   anger. 

What  word  of  Merlin  was  abroad  today?" 

"Today  have  I  heard  no  man  save  Gawaine, 

And  to  him  I  said  only  what  all  men 

Are  saying  to  their  neighbors.     They  believe 

That  you  have  Merlin  here,  and  that  his  coming 

Denotes  no  good.     Gawaine  was  curious, 

But  ever  mindful  of  your  majesty. 

He  pressed  me  not,  and  we  made  light  of  it." 

"Gawaine,  I  fear,  makes  light  of  everything," 
The  King  said,  looking  down.     "Sometimes  I  wish 
I  had  a  full  Round  Table  of  Gawaines. 
But  that's  a  freak  of  midnight, — never  mind  it. 
Sing  me  a  song — one  of  those  endless  things 

255 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  Merlin  liked  of  old,  when  men  were  younger 
And  there  were  more  stars  twinkling  in  the  sky. 
I  see  no  stars  that  are  alive  tonight, 
And  I  am  not  the  king  of  sleep.    So  then, 
Sing  me  an  old  song." 

Dagonet's  quick  eye 

Caught  sorrow  in  the  King's;  and  he  knew  more, 
In  a  fool's  way,  than  even  the  King  himself 
Of  what  was  hovering  over  Camelot. 
"O  King,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  sing  tonight. 
If  you  command  me  I  shall  try  to  sing, 
But  I  shall  fail ;  for  there  are  no  songs  now 
In  my  old  throat,  or  even  in  these  poor  strings 
That  I  can  hardly  follow  with  my  fingers. 
Forgive  me — kill  me — but  I  cannot  sing." 
Dagonet  fell  down  then  on  both  his  knees 
And  shook  there  while  he  clutched  the  King's  cold  hand 
And  wept  for  what  he  knew. 

"There,  Dagonet; 

I  shall  not  kill  my  knight,  or  make  him  sing. 
No  more;  get  up,  and  get  you  off  to  bed. 
There'll  be  another  time  for  you  to  sing, 
So  get  you  to  your  covers  and  sleep  well." 
Alone  again,  the  King  said,  bitterly: 
"Yes,  I  have  one  friend  left,  and  they  who  know 
As  much  of  him  as  of  themselves  believe 
That  he's  a  fool.    Poor  Dagonet's  a  fool. 
And  if  he  be  a  fool,  what  else  am  I 
Than  one  fool  more  to  make  the  world  complete? 
'The  love  that  never  was !'  .  .  .  Fool,  fool,  fool,  fool !" 

The  King  was  long  awake.    No  covenant 
With  peace  was  his  tonight;  and  he  knew  sleep 

256 


MERLIN 

As  he  knew  the  cold  eyes  of  Guinevere 
That  yesterday  had  stabbed  him,  having  first 
On  Lancelot's  name  struck  fire,  and  left  him  then 
As  now  they  left  him — with  a  wounded  heart, 
A  wounded  pride,  and  a  sickening  pang  worse  yet 
Of  lost  possession.    He  thought  wearily 
Of  watchers  by  the  dead,  late  wayfarers, 
Rough-handed  mariners  on  ships  at  sea, 
Lone-yawning  sentries,  wastrels,  and  all  others 
Who  might  be  saying  somewhere  to  themselves, 
"The  King  is  now  asleep  in  Camelot; 
God  save  the  King." — "God  save  the  King,  indeed, 
If  there  be  now  a  king  to  save,"  he  said. 
Then  he  saw  giants  rising  in  the  dark, 
Born  horribly  of  memories  and  new  fears 
That  in  the  gray-lit  irony  of  dawn 
Were  partly  to  fade  out  and  be  forgotten; 
And  then  there  might  be  sleep,  and  for  a  time 
There  might  again  be  peace.     His  head  was  hot 
And  throbbing;  but  the  rest  of  him  was  cold, 
As  he  lay  staring  hard  where  nothing  stood, 
And  hearing  what  was  not,  even  while  he  saw 
And  heard,  like  dust  and  thunder  far  away, 
The  coming  confirmation  of  the  words 
Of  him  who  saw  eo  much  and  feared  so  little 
Of  all  that  was  to  be.     No  spoken  doom 
That  ever  chilled  the  last  night  of  a  felon 
Prepared  a  dragging  anguish  more  profound 
And  absolute  than  Arthur,  in  these  hours, 
Made  out  of  darkness  and  of  Merlin's  words; 
No  tide  that  ever  crashed  on  Lyonnesse 
Drove  echoes  inland  that  were^  lonelier 
For  widowed  ears  among  the  fisher-folk, 
Than  for  the  King  were  memories  tonight 
Of  old  illusions  that  were  dead  for  ever. 

257 


IV 

THE  tortured  King — seeing  Merlin  wholly  meshed 
In  his  defection,  even  to  indifference, 
And  all  the  while  attended  and  exalted 
By  some  unfathomable  obscurity 
Of  divination,  where  the  Grail,  unseen, 
Broke  yet  the  darkness  where  a  king  saw  nothing — 
Feared  now  the  lady  Vivian  more  than  Fate; 
For  now  he  knew  that  Modred,  Lancelot, 
The  Queen,  the  King,  the  Kingdom,  and  the  World, 
Were  less  to  Merlin,  who  had  made  him  King, 
Than  one  small  woman  in  Broceliande. 
Whereas  the  lady  Vivian,  seeing  Merlin 
Acclaimed  and  tempted  and  allured  again 
To  service  in  his  old  magnificence, 

Feared  now  King  Arthur^  more  than  storms  and  robbers ; 
For  Merlin,  though  he  knew  himself  immune 
To  no  least  whispered  little  wish  of  hers 
That  might  afflict  his  ear  with  ecstasy, 
Had  yet  sufficient  of  his  old  command 
Of  all  around  him  to  invest  an  eye 
With  quiet  lightning,  and  a  spoken  word 
With  easy  thunder,  so  accomplishing 
A  profit  and  a  pastime  for  himself — 
And  for  the  lady  Vivian,  when  her  guile 
Outlived  at  intervals  her  graciousness; 
And  this  equipment  of  uncertainty, 
Which  now  had  gone  away  with  him  to  Britain 
With  Dagonet,  so  plagued  her  memory 
That  soon  a  phantom  brood  of  goblin  doubts 
Inhabited  his  absence,  which  had  else 
Been  empty  waiting  and  a  few  brave  fears, 
And  a  few  more,  she  knew,  that  were  not  brave, 
Or  long  to  be  disowned,  or  manageable. 

258 


MERLIN 

She  thought  of  him  as  he  had  looked  at  her 

When  first  he  had  acquainted  her  alarm 

At  sight  of  the  King's  letter  with  its  import; 

And  she  remembered  now  his  very  words: 

"The  King  believes  today  as  in  his  boyhood 

That  I  am  Fate,"  he  said;  and  when  they  parted 

She  had  not  even  asked  him  not  to  go; 

She  might  as  well,  she  thought,  have  bid  the  wind 

Throw  no  more  clouds  across  a  lonely  sky 

Between  her  and  the  moon, — so  great  he  seemed 

In  his  oppressed  solemnity,  and  she, 

In  her  excess  of  wrong  imagining, 

So  trivial  in  an  hour,  and,  after  all 

A  creature  of  a  smaller  consequence 

Than  kings  to  Merlin,  who  made  kings  and  kingdoms 

And  had  them  as  a  father;  and  so  she  feared 

King  Arthur  more  than  robbers  while  she  waited 

For  Merlin's  promise  to  fulfil  itself, 

And  for  the  rest  that  was  to  follow  after: 

"He  said  he  would  come  back,  and  so  he  will. 

He  will  because  he  must,  and  he  is  Merlin, 

The  master  of  the  world — or  so  he  was; 

And  he  is  coming  back  again  to  me 

Because  he  must  and  I  am  Vivian. 

It's  all  as  easy  as  two  added  numbers : 

Some  day  I'll  hear  him  ringing  at  the  gate, 

As  he  rang  on  that  morning  in  the  spring, 

Ten  years  ago;  and  I  shall  have  him  then 

For  ever.     He  shall  never  go  away 

Though  kings  come  walking  on  their  hands  and  knees 

To  take  him  on  their  backs."    When  Merlin  came, 

She  told  him  that,  and  laughed;  and  he  said  strangely: 

"Be  glad  or  sorry,  but  no  kings  are  coming. 

Not  Arthur,  surely;  for  now  Arthur  knows 

That  I  am  less  than  Fate." 

259 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Ten  years  ago 

The  King  had  heard,  with  unbelieving  ears 
At  first,  what  Merlin  said  would  be  the  last 
Eeiteration  of  his  going  down 
To  find  a  living  grave  in  Brittany: 
"Buried  alive  I  told  you  I  should  be, 
By  love  made  little  and  by  woman  shorn, 
Like  Samson,  of  my  glory;  and  the  time 
Is  now  at  hand.     I  follow  in  the  morning 
Where  I  am  led.    I  see  behind  me  now 
The  last  of  crossways,  and  I  see  before  me 
A  straight  and  final  highway  to  the  end 
Of  all  my  divination.    You  are  King, 
And  in  your  kingdom  I  am  what  I  was. 
Wherever  I  have  warned  you,  see  as  far 
As  I  have  seen;  for  I  have  shown  the  worst 
There  is  to  see.    Require  no  more  of  me, 
For  I  can  be  no  more  than  what  I  was." 
So,  on  the  morrow,  the  King  said  farewell; 
And  he  was  never  more  to  Merlin's  eye 
The  King  than  at  that  hour;  for  Merlin  knew 
How  much  was  going  out  of  Arthur's  life 
With  him,  as  he  went  southward  to  the  sea. 

Over  the  waves  and  into  Brittany 
Went  Merlin,  to  Broceliande.    Gay  birds 
Were  singing  high  to  greet  him  all  along 
A  broad  and  sanded  woodland  avenue 
That  led  him  on  forever,  so  he  thought, 
Until  at  last  there  was  an  end  of  it; 
And  at  the  end  there  was  a  gate  of  iron, 
Wrought  heavily  and  invidiously  barred. 
He  pulled  a  cord  that  rang  somewhere  a  bell 
Of  many  echoes,  and  sat  down  to  rest, 
Outside  the  keeper's  house,  upon  a  bench 

260 


MERLIN 

Of  carven  stone  that  might  for  centuries 

Have  waited  there  in  silence  to  receive  him. 

The  birds  were  singing  still;  leaves  flashed  and  swung 

Before  him.  in  the  sunlight;  a  soft  breeze 

Made  intermittent  whisperings  around  him 

Of  love  and  fate  and  danger,  and  faint  waves 

Of  many  sweetly-stinging  fragile  odors 

Broke  lightly  as  they  touched  him;  cherry-boughs 

Above  him  snowed  white  petals  down  upon  him, 

And  under  their  slow  falling  Merlin  smiled 

Contentedly,  as  one  who  contemplates 

No  longer  fear,  confusion,  or  regret, 

May  smile  at  ruin  or  at  revelation. 

A  stately  fellow  with  a  forest  air 

Now  hailed  him  from  within,  with  searching  words 

And  curious  looks,  till  Merlin's  glowing  eye 

Transfixed  him  and  he  flinched :     "My  compliments 

And  homage  to  the  lady  Vivian. 

Say  Merlin  from  King  Arthur's  Court  is  here, 

A  pilgrim  and  a  stranger  in  appearance, 

Though  in  effect  her  friend  and  humble  servant. 

Convey  to  her  my  speech  as  I  have  said  it, 

Without  abbreviation  or  delay, 

And  so  deserve  my  gratitude  forever." 

"But  Merlin?"  the  man  stammered;  "Merlin?     Merlin?" — 

"One  Merlin  is  enough.     I  know  no  other. 

Now  go  you  to  the  lady  Vivian 

And  bring  to  me  her  word,  for  I  am  weary." 

Still  smiling  at  the  cherry-blossoms  falling 

Down  on  him  and  around  him  in  the  sunlight, 

He  waited,  never  moving,  never  glancing 

This  way  or  that,  until  his  messenger 

Came  jingling  into  vision,  weighed  with  keys, 

And  inly  shaken  with  much  wondering 

261 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

At  this  great  wizard's  coming  unannounced 

And  unattended.     When  the  way  was  open 

The  stately  messenger,  now  bowing  low 

In  reverence  and  awe,  bade  Merlin  enter; 

And  Merlin,  having  entered,  heard  the  gate 

Clang  back  behind  him ;  and  he  swore  no  gate 

Like  that  had  ever  clanged  in  Camelot, 

Or  any  other  place  if  not  in  hell. 

"I  may  be  dead;  and  this  good  fellow  here, 

With  all  his  keys,"  he  thought,  "may  be  the  Devil, — 

Though  I  were  loath  to  say  so,  for  the  keys 

Would  make  him  rather  more  akin  to  Peter; 

And  that's  fair  reasoning  for  this  fair  weather." 

"The  lady  Vivian  says  you  are  most  welcome," 

Said  now  the  stately-favored  servitor, 

"And  are  to  follow  me.     She  said,  'Say  Merlin — 

A  pilgrim  and  a  stranger  in  appearance, 

Though  in  effect  my  friend  and  humble  servant — 

Is  welcome  for  himself,  and  for  the  sound 

Of  his  great  name  that  echoes  everywhere.'  " — 

"I  like  you  and  I  like  your  memory," 

Said  Merlin,  curiously,  "but  not  your  gate. 

Why  forge  for  this  elysian  wilderness 

A  thing  so  vicious  with  unholy  noise?" — 

"There's  a  way  out  of  every  wilderness 

For  those  who  dare  or  care  enough  to  find  it," 

The  guide  said :  and  they  moved  along  together, 

Down  shaded  ways,  through  open  ways  with  hedgerows. 

And  into  shade  again  more  deep  than  ever, 

But  edged  anon  with  rays  of  broken  sunshine 

In  which  a  fountain,  raining  crystal  music, 

Made  faery  magic  of  it  through  green  leafage, 

Till  Merlin's  eyes  were  dim  with  preparation 

For  sight  now  of  the  lady  Vivian. 

262 


MERLIN 

He  saw  at  first  a  bit  of  living  green 

That  might  have  been  a  part  of  all  the  green 

Around  the  tinkling  fountain  where  she  gazed 

Upon  the  circling  pool  as  if  her  thoughts 

Were  not  so  much  on  Merlin — whose  advance 

Betrayed  through  his  enormity  of  hair 

The  cheeks  and  eyes  of  youth — as  on  the  fishes. 

But  soon  she  turned  and  found  him,  now  alone, 

And  held  him  while  her  beauty  and  her  grace 

Made  passing  trash  of  empires,  and  his  eyes 

'Told  hers  of  what  a  splendid  emptiness 

Her  tedious  world  had  been  without  him  in  it 

Whose  love  and  service  were  to  be  her  school, 

Her  triumph,  and  her  history :     "This  is  Merlin," 

She  thought;  "and  I  shall  dream  of  him  no  more. 

And  he  has  come,  he  thinks,  to  frighten  me 

With  beards  and  robes  and  his  immortal  fame; 

Or  is  it  I  who  think  so  ?    I  know  not. 

I'm  frightened,  sure  enough,  but  if  I  show  it, 

I'll  be  no  more  the  Vivian  for  whose  love 

He  tossed  away  his  glory,  or  the  Vivian 

Who  saw  no  man  alive  to  make  her  love  him 

Till  she  saw  Merlin  once  in  Camelot, 

And  seeing  him,  saw  no  other.    In  an  age 

That  has  no  plan  for  me  that  I  can  read 

Without  him)  shall  he  tell  me  what  I  am, 

And  why  I  am,  I  wonder?"     While  she  thought, 

And  feared  the  man  whom  her  perverse  negation 

Must  overcome  somehow  to  soothe  her  fancy, 

She  smiled  and  welcomed  him ;  and  so  they  stood, 

Each  finding  in  the  other's  eyes  a  gleam 

Of  what  eternity  had  hidden  there. 

"Are  you  always  all  in  green,  as  you  are  now?" 
Said  Merlin,  more  employed  with  her  complexion, 

263 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Where  blood  and  olive  made  wild  harmony 
With  eyes  and  wayward  hair  that  were  too  dark 
For  peace  if  they  were  not  subordinated; 
"If  so  you  are,  then  so  you  make  yourself 
A  danger  in  a  world  of  many  dangers. 
If  I  were  young,  God  knows  if  I  were  safe 
Concerning  you  in  green,  like  a  slim  cedar, 
As  you  are  now,  to  say  my  life  was  mine: 
Were  you  to  say  to  me  that  I  should  end  it, 
Longevity  for  me  were  jeopardized. 
Have  you  your  green  on  always  and  all  over  ?" 

"Come  here,  and  I  will  tell  you  about  that," 
Said  Vivian,  leading  Merlin  with  a  laugh 
To  an  arbored  seat  where  they  made  opposites: 
"If  you  are  Merlin — and  I  know  you  are, 
For  I  remember  you  in  Camelot, — 
You  know  that  I  am  Vivian,  as  I  am; 
And  if  I  go  in  green,  why,  let  me  go  so, 
And  say  at  once  why  you  have  come  to  me 
Cloaked  over  like  a  monk,  and  with  a  beard 
As  long  as  Jeremiah's.    I  don't  like  it. 
I'll  never  like  a  man  with  hair  like  that 
While  I  can  feed  a  carp  with  little  frogs. 
I'm  rather  sure  to  hate  you  if  you  keep  it, 
And  when  I  hate  a  man  I  poison  him." 

"You've  never  fed  a  carp  with  little  frogs," 
Said  Merlin;  "I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes." — 
"I  might  then,  if  I  haven't,"  said  the  lady; 
"For  I'm  a  savage,  and  I  love  no  man 
As  I  have  seen  him  yet.    I'm  here  alone, 
With  some  three  hundred  others,  all  of  whom 
Are  ready,  I  dare  say,  to  die  for  me; 
I'm  cruel  and  I'm  cold,  and  I  like  snakes; 

264 


MERLIN 

And  some  have  said  my  mother  was  a  fairy, 
Though  I  believe  it  not." 

"Why  not  believe  it?" 
Said  Merlin;  "I  believe  it.    I  believe 
Also  that  you  divine,  as  I  had  wished, 
In  my  surviving  ornament  of  office 
A  needless  imposition  on  your  wits, 
If  not  yet  on  the  scope  of  your  regard. 
Even  so,  you  cannot  say  how  old  I  am, 
Or  yet  how  young.    I'm  willing  cheerfully 
To  fight,  left-handed,  Hell's  three  headed  hound 
If  you  but  whistle  him  up  from  where  he  Jives; 
I'm  cheerful  and  I'm  fierce,  and  I've  made  kings; 
And  some  have  said  my  father  was  the  Devil, 
Though  I  believe  it  not.    Whatever  I  am, 
I  have  not  lived  in  Time  until  to-day." 
A  moment's  worth  of  wisdom  there  escaped  him, 
But  Yivian  seized  it,  and  it  was  not  lost. 

Embroidering  doom  with  many  levities, 

Till  now  the  fountain's  crystal  silver,  fading, 

Became  a  splash  and  a  mere  chilliness, 

They  mocked  their  fate  with  easy  pleasantries 

That  were  too  false  and  small  to  be  forgotten, 

And  with  ingenious  insincerities 

That  had  no  repetition  or  revival. 

At  last  the  lady  Vivian  arose, 

And  with  a  crying  of  how  late  it  was 

Took  Merlin's  hand  and  led  him  like  a  child 

Along  a  dusky  way  between  tall  cones 

Of  tight  green  cedars:    "Am  I  like  one  of  these? 

You  said  I  was,  though  I  deny  it  wholly." — 

"Very,"  said  Merlin,  to  his  bearded  lips 

Uplifting  her  small  fingers. — "O,  that  hair!" 

265 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

She  moaned,  as  if  in  sorrow :    "Must  it  be  ? 

Must  every  prophet  and  important  wizard 

Be  clouded  so  that  nothing  but  his  nose 

And  eyes,  and  intimations  of  his  ears, 

Are  there  to  make  us  know  him  when  we  see  him? 

Praise  heaven  I'm  not  a  prophet!     Are  you  glad?"- 

He  did  not  say  that  he  was  glad  or  sorry; 
For  suddenly  came  flashing  into  vision 
A  thing  that  was  a  manor  and  a  castle, 
With  walls  and  roofs  that  had  a  flaming  sky 
Behind  them,  like  a  sky  that  he  remembered, 
And  one  that  had  from  his  rock-sheltered  haunt 
Above  the  roofs  of^his  forsaken  city 
Made  flame  as  if  all  Camelot  were  on  fire. 
The  glow  brought  with  it  a  brief  memory 
Of  Arthur  as  he  left  him,  and  the  pain 
That  fought  in  Arthur's  eyes  for  losing  him, 
And  must  have  overflowed  when  he  had  vanished. 
But  now  the  eyes  that  looked  hard  into  his 
Were  Vivian's,  not  the  King's;  and  he  could  see, 
Or  so  he  thought,  a  shade  of  sorrow  in  them. 
She  took  his  two.  hands :    "You  are  sad,"  she  said. — 
He  smiled:    "Your  western  lights  bring  memories 
Of  Camelot.    We  all  have  memories — 
Prophets,  and  women  who  are  like  slim  cedars; 
But  you  are  wrong  to  say  that  I  am  sad." — 
"Would  you  go  back  to  Camelot?"  she  asked, 
Her  fingers  tightening.     Merlin  shook  his  head. 
"Then  listen  while  I  tell  you  that  I'm  glad," 
She  purred,  as  if  assured  that  he  would  listen: 
"At  your  first  warning,  much  too  long  ago, 
Of  this  quaint  pilgrimage  of  yours  to  see 
'The  fairest  and  most  orgulous  of  ladies' — 
No  language  for  a  prophet,  I  am  sure — 

266 


MERLIN 

Said  I,  When  this  great  Merlin  conies  to  me, 

My  task  and  avocation  for  some  time 

Will  be  to  make  him  willing,  if  I  can, 

To  teach  and  feed  me  with  an  ounce  of  wisdom.7 

For  I  have  eaten  to  an  empty  shell, 

After  a  weary  feast  of  observation 

Among  the  glories  of  a  tinsel  world 

That  had  for  me  no  glory  till  you  came, 

A  life  that  is  no  life.    Would  you  go  back 

To  Camelot?" — Merlin  shook  his  head  again, 

And  the  two  smiled  together  in  the  sunset. 

They  moved  along  in  silence  to  the  door, 

Where  Merlin  said :    "Of  your  three  hundred  here 

There  is  but  one  I  know,  and  him  I  favor; 

I  mean  the  stately  one  who  shakes  the  keys 

Of  that  most  evil  sounding  gate  of  yours, 

Which  has  a  clang  as  if  it  shut  forever." — 

"If  there  be  need,  I'll  shut  the  gate  myself," 

She  said.    "And  you  like  Blaise?    Then  you  shall  have  him. 

He  was  not  born  to  serve,  but  serve  he  must, 

It  seems,  and  be  enamoured  of  my  shadow. 

He  cherishes  the  taint  of  some  high  folly 

That  haunts  him  with  a  name  he  cannot  know, 

And  I  could  fear  his  wits  are  paying  for  it. 

Forgive  his  tongue,  and  humor  it  a  little." — 

"I  knew  another  one  whose  name  was  Blaise," 

He  said;  and  she  said  lightly,  "Well,  what  of  it?"— 

"And  he  was  nigh  the  learnedest  of  hermits ; 

His  home  was  far  away  from  everywhere, 

And  he  was  all  alone  there  when  he  died." — 

"Now  be  a  pleasant  Merlin,"  Vivian  said, 

Patting  his  arm,  "and  have  no  more  of  that; 

For  I'll  not  hear  of  dead  men  far  away, 

Or  dead  men  anywhere  this  afternoon. 

267 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

There'll  be  a  trifle  in  the  way  of  supper 
This  evening,  but  the  dead  shall  not  have  any. 
Blaise  and  this  man  will  tell  you  all  there  is 
For  you  to  know.    Then  you'll  know  everything." 
She  laughed,  and  vanished  like  a  humming-bird. 


THE  sun  went  down,  and  the  dark  after  it 
Starred  Merlin's  new  abode  with  many  a  sconced 
And  many  a  moving  candle,  in  whose  light 
The  prisoned  wizard,  mirrored  in  amazement, 
Saw  fronting  him  a  stranger,  falcon-eyed, 
Firm-featured,  of  a  negligible  age, 
And  fair  enough  to  look  upon,  he  fancied, 
Though  not  a  warrior  born,  nor  more  a  courtier. 
A  native  humor  resting  in  his  long 
And  solemn  jaws  now  stirred,  and  Merlin  smiled 
To  see  himself  in  purple,  touched  with  gold, 
And  fledged  with  snowy  lace. — The  careful  Blaise, 
Having  drawn  some  time  before  from  Merlin's  wallet 
The  sable  raiment  of  a  royal  scholar, 
Had  eyed  it  with  a  long  mistrust  and  said : 
"The  lady  Vivian  would  be  vexed,  I  fear, 
To  meet  you  vested  in  these  learned  weeds 
Of  gravity  and  death;  for  she  abhors 
Mortality  in  all  its  hues  and  emblems — 
Black  wear,  long  argument,  and  all  the  cold 
And  solemn  things  that  appertain  to  graves." — 
And  Merlin,  listening,  to  himself  had  said, 
"This  fellow  has  a  freedom,  yet  I  like  him;" 
And  then  aloud :    "I  trust  you.    Deck  me  out, 
However,  with  a  temperate  regard 
For  what  your  candid  eye  may  find  in  me 
Of  inward  coloring.    Let  them  reap  my  beard, 

268 


MERLIN 

Moreover,  with  a  sort  of  reverence, 

For  I  shall  never  look  on  it  again. 

And  though  your  lady  frown  her  face  away 

To  think  of  me  in  black,  for  God's  indulgence, 

Array  me  not  in  scarlet  or  in  yellow." — 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  Merlin  sat 

At  ease  in  purple,  even  though  his  chin 

Reproached  him  as  he  pinched  it,  and  seemed  yet 

A  little  fearful  of  its  nakedness. 

He  might  have  sat  and  scanned  himself  for  ever 

Had  not  the  careful  Blaise,  regarding  him, 

Remarked  again  that  in  his  proper  judgment, 

And  on  the  valid  word  of  his  attendants, 

No  more  was  to  be  done.    "Then  do  no  more," 

Said  Merlin,  with  a  last  look  at  his  chin ; 

"Never  do  more  when  there's  no  more  to  do, 

And  you  may  shun  thereby  the  bitter  taste 

Of  many  disillusions  and  regrets. 

God's  pity  on  us  that  our  words  have  wings 

And  leave  our  deeds  to  crawl  so  far  below  them; 

For  we  have  all  two  heights,  we  men  who  dream, 

Whether  we  lead  or  follow,  rule  or  serve." — 

"God's  pity  on  us  anyhow,"  Blaise  answered, 

"Or  most  of  us.    Meanwhile,  I  have  to  say, 

As  long  as  you  are  here,  and  I'm  alive, 

Your  summons  will  assure  the  loyalty 

Of  all  my  diligence  and  expedition. 

The  gong  that  you  hear  singing  in  the  distance 

Was  rung  for  your  attention  and  your  presence."- 

"I  wonder  at  this  fellow,  yet  I  like  him," 

Said  Merlin ;  and  he  rose  to  follow  him. 

The  lady  Vivian  in  a  fragile  sheath 

Of  crimson,  dimmed  and  veiled  ineffably 

By  the  flame-shaken  gloom  wherein  she  sat, 

269 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  twinkled  if  she  moved,  heard  Merlin  coming, 

And  smiled  as  if  to  make  herself  believe 

Her  joy  was  all  a  triumph;  yet  her  blood 

Confessed  a  tingling  of  more  wonderment 

Than  all  her  five  and  twenty  worldly  years 

Of  waiting  for  this  triumph  could  remember; 

And  when  she  knew  and  felt  the  slower  tread 

Of  his  unseen  advance  among  the  shadows 

To  the  small  haven  of  uncertain  light 

That  held  her  in  it  as  a  torch-lit  shoal 

Might  hold  a  smooth  red  fish,  her  listening  skin 

Responded  with  a  creeping  underneath  it, 

And  a  crinkling  that  was  incident  alike 

To  darkness,  love,  and  mice.    When  he  was  there, 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  a  whirl  of  mirth 

And  wonder,  as  in  childhood  she  had  gazed 

Wide-eyed  on  royal  mountebanks  who  made 

So  brief  a  shift  of  the  impossible 

That  kings  and  queens  would  laugh  and  shake  themselves; 

Then  rising  slowly  on  her  little  feet, 

Like  a  slim  creature  lifted,  she  thrust  out 

Her  two  small  hands  as  if  to  push  him  back — 

Whereon  he  seizeoT  them.    "Go  away,"  she  said; 

"I  never  saw  you  in  my  life  before." — 

"You  say  the  truth,"  he  answered ;  "when  I  met 

Myself  an  hour  ago,  my  words  were  yours. 

God  made  the  man  you  see  for  you  to  like, 

If  possible.    If  otherwise,  turn  down 

These  two  prodigious  and  remorseless  thumbs 

And  leave  your  lions  to  annihilate  him." — 

"I  have  no  other  lion  than  yourself," 
She  said;  "and  since  you  cannot  eat  yourself, 
Pray  do  a  lonely  woman,  who  is,  you  say, 
More  like  a  tree  than  any  other  thing 

270 


MERLIN 

In  your  discrimination,  the  large  honor 
Of  sharing  with  her  a  small  kind  of  supper." — 
"Yes,  you  are  like  a  tree, — or  like  a  flower; 
More  like  a  flower  to-night."    He  bowed  his  head 
And  kissed  the  ten  small  fingers  he  was  holding, 
As  calmly  as  if  each  had  been  a  son; 
Although  his  heart  was  leaping  and  his  eyes 
Had  sight  for  nothing  save  a  swimming  crimson 
Between  two  glimmering  arms.     "More  like  a  flower 
To-night,"  he  said,  as  now  he  scanned  again 
The  immemorial  meaning  of  her  face 
And  drew  it  nearer  to  his  eyes.    It  seemed 
A  flower  of  wonder  with  a  crimson  stem 
Came  leaning  slowly  and  regretfully 
To  meet  his  will — a  flower  of  change  and  peril 
That  had  a  clinging  blossom  of  warm  olive 
Half  stifled  with  a  tyranny  of  black, 
And  held  the  wayward  fragrance  of  a  rose 
Made  woman  by  delirious  alchemy. 
She  raised  her  face  and  yoked  his  willing  neck 
With  half  her  weight;  and  with  hot  lips  that  left 
The  world  with  only  one  philosophy 
For  Merlin  or  for  Anaxagoras, 
Called  his  to  meet  them  and  in  one  long  hush 
Of  capture  to  surrender  and  make  hers 
The  last  of  anything  that  might  remain 
Of  what  was  now  their  beardless  wizardry. 
Then  slowly  she  began  to  push  herself 
Away,  and  slowly  Merlin  let  her  go 
As  far  from  him  as  his  outreaching  hands 
Could  hold  her  fingers  while  his  eyes  had  all 
The  beauty  of  the  woodland  and  the  world 
Before  him  in  the  firelight,  like  a  nymph 
Of  cities,  or  a  queen  a  little  weary 
Of  inland  stillness  and  immortal  trees. 

271 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Are  you  to  let  me  go  again  sometime," 

She  said, — "before  I  starve  to  death,  I  wonder  ? 

If  not,  I'll  have  to  bite  the  lion's  paws, 

And  make  him  roar.    He  cannot  shake  his  mane, 

For  now  the  lion  has  no  mane  to  shake; 

The  lion  hardly  knows  himself  without  it, 

And  thinks  he  has  no  face,  but  there's  a  lady 

Who  says  he  had  no  face  until  he  lost  it. 

So  there  we  are.    And  there's  a  flute  somewhere, 

Playing  a  strange  old  tune.    You  know  the  words: 

'The  Lion  and  the  Lady  are  both  hungry.' " 

Fatigue  and  hunger — tempered  leisurely 
With  food  that  some  devout  magician's  oven 
Might  after  many  failures  have  delivered, 
And  wine  that  had  for  decades  in  the  dark 
Of  Merlin's  grave  been  slowly  quickening, 
And  with  half-heard,  dream-weaving  interludes 
Of  distant  flutes  and  viols,  made  more  distant 
By  far,  nostalgic  hautboys  blown  from  nowhere, — 
Were  tempered  not  so  leisurely,  may  be, 
With  Vivian's  inextinguishable  eyes 
Between  two  shining  silver  candlesticks 
That  lifted  each  a  trembling  flame  to  make 
The  rest  of  her  a  dusky  loveliness 
Against  a  bank  of  shadow.    Merlin  made, 
As  well  as  he  was  able  while  he  ate, 
A  fair  division  of  the  fealty  due 
To  food  and  beauty,  albeit  more  times  than  one 
Was  he  at  odds  with  his  urbanity 
In  honoring  too  long  the  grosser  viand. 
"The  best  invention  in  Broceliande 
Has  not  been  over-taxed  in  vain,  I  see," 
She  told  him,  with  her  chin  propped  on  her  fingers 
And  her  eyes  flashing  blindness  into  his : 

272 


MERLIN 

"I  put  myself  out  cruelly  to  please  you, 
And  you,  for  that,  forget  almost  at  once 
The  name  and  image  of  me  altogether. 
You  needn't,  for  when  all  is  analyzed, 
It's  only  a  bird-pie  that  you  are  eating." 

"I  know  not  what  you  call  it,"  Merlin  said; 
"Nor  more  do  I  forget  your  name  and  image, 
Though  I  do  eat;  and  if  I  did  not  eat, 
Your  sending  out  of  ships  and  caravans 
To  get  whatever  'tis  that's  in  this  thing 
Would  be  a  sorrow  for  you  all  your  days ; 
And  my  great  love,  which  you  have  seen  by  now, 
Might  look  to  you  a  lie;  and  like  as  not 
You'd  actuate  some  sinewed  mercenary 
To  carry  me  away  to  God  knows  where 
And  seal  me  in  a  fearsome  hole  to  starve, 
Because  I  made  of  this  insidious  picking 
An  idle  circumstance.    My  dear  fair  lady— 
And  there  is  not  another  under  heaven 
So  fair  as  you  are  as  I  see  you  now— 
I  cannot  look  at  you  too  much  and  eat; 
And  I  must  eat,  or  be  untimely  ashes, 
Whereon  the  light  of  your  celestial  gaze 
Would  fall,  I  fear  me,  for  no  longer  time 
Than  on  the  solemn  dust  of  Jeremiah — 
Whose  beard  you  likened  once,  in  heathen  jest, 
To  mine  that  now  is  no  man's." 

"Are  you  sorry?" 

Said  Vivian,  filling  Merlin's  empty  goblet; 
"If  you  are  sorry  for  the  loss  of  it, 
Drink  more  of  this  and  you  may  tell  me  lies 
Enough  to  make  me  sure  that  you  are  glad; 
But  if  your  love  is  what  you  say  it  is, 

273 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Be  never  sorry  that  my  love  took  off 

That  horrid  hair  to  make  your  face  at  last 

A  human  fact.    Since  I  have  had  your  name 

To  dream  of  and  say  over  to  myself, 

The  visitations  of  that  awful  beard 

Have  been  a  terror  for  my  nights  and  days — 

For  twenty  years.    I've  seen  it  like  an  ocean, 

Blown  seven  ways  at  once  and  wrecking  ships, 

With  men  and  women  screaming  for  their  lives; 

I've  seen  it  woven  into  shining  ladders 

That  ran  up  out  of  sight  and  so  to  heaven, 

All  covered  with  white  ghosts  with  hanging  robes 

Like  folded  wings, — and  there  were  millions  of  them, 

Climbing,  climbing,  climbing,  all  the  time; 

And  all  the  time  that  I  was  watching  them 

I  thought  how  far  above  me  Merlin  was, 

And  wondered  always  what  his  face  was  like. 

But  even  then,  as  a  child,  I  knew  the  day 

Would  come  some  time  when  I  should  see  his  face 

And  hear  his  voice,  and  have  him  in  my  house 

Till  he  should  care  no  more  to  stay  in  it, 

And  go  away  to  found  another  kingdom." — 

"Not  that,"  he  said;  and,  sighing,  drank  more  wine; 

"One  kingdom  for  one  Merlin  is  enough." — 

"One  Merlin  for  one  Vivian  is  enough," 

She  said.    "If  you  care  much,  remember  that; 

But  the  Lord  knows  how  many  Vivians 

One  Merlin's  entertaining  eye  might  favor, 

Indifferently  well  and  all  at  once, 

If  they  were  all  at  hand.    Praise  heaven  they're  not." 

"If  they  were  in  the  world — praise  heaven  they're  not — 
And  if  one  Merlin's  entertaining  eye 
Saw  two  of  them,  there  might  be  left  him  then 
The  sight  of  no  eye  to  see  anything — 

274 


MERLIN 

Not  even  the  Vivian  who  is  everything, 

She  being  Beauty,  Beauty  being  She, 

She  being  Vivian,  and  so  on  for  ever." — 

"I'm  glad  you  don't  see  two  of  me,"  she  said; 

"For  there's  a  whole  world  yet  for  you  to  eat 

And  drink  and  say  to  me  before  I  know 

The  sort  of  creature  that  you  see  in  me. 

I'm  withering  for  a  little  more  attention, 

But,  being  woman,  I  can  wait.     These  cups 

That  you  see  coming  are  for  the  last  there  is 

Of  what  my  father  gave  to  kings  alone, 

And  far  from  always.    You  are  more  than  kings 

To  me;  therefore  I  give  it  all  to  you, 

Imploring  you  to  spare  no  more  of  it 

Than  a  small  cockle-shell  would  hold  for  me 

To  pledge  your  love  and  mine  in.    Take  the  rest, 

That  I  may  see  tonight  the  end  of  it. 

I'll  have  no  living  remnant  of  the  dead 

Annoying  me  until  it  fades  and  sours 

Of  too  long  cherishing;  for  Time  enjoys 

The  look  that's  on  our  faces  when  we  scowl 

On  unexpected  ruins,  and  thrift  itself 

May  be  a  sort  of  slow  unwholesome  fire 

That  eats  away  to  dust  the  life  that  feeds  it. 

You  smile,  I  see,  but  I  said  what  I  said. 

One  hardly  has  to  live  a  thousand  years 

To  contemplate  a  lost  economy; 

So  let  us  drink  it  while  it's  yet  alive 

And  you  and  I  are  not  untimely  ashes. 

My  last  words  are  your  own,  and  I  don't  like  'em." — 

A  sudden  laughter  scattered  from  her  eyes 

A  threatening  wisdom.    He  smiled  and  let  her  laugh, 

Then  looked  into  the  dark  where  there  was  nothing: 

"There's  more  in  this  than  I  have  seen,"  he  thought, 

"Though  I  shall  see  it." — "Drink,"  she  said  again; 

275 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"There's  only  this  much  in  the  world  of  it, 
And  I  am  near  to  giving  all  to  you 
Because  you  are  so  great  and  I  so  little." 

With  a  long-kindling  gaze  that  caught  from  hers 
A  laughing  flame,  and  with  a  hand  that  shook 
Like  Arthur's  kingdom,  Merlin  slowly  raised 
A  golden  cup  that  for  a  golden  moment 
Was  twinned  in  air  with  hers;  and  Vivian, 
Who  smiled  at  him  across  their  gleaming  rims, 
From  eyes  that  made  a  fuel  of  the  night 
Surrounding  her,  shot  glory  over  gold 
At  Merlin,  while  their  cups  touched  and  his  trembled. 
He  drank,  not  knowing  what,  nor  caring  much 
For  kings  who  might  have  cared  less  for  themselves, 
He  thought,  had  all  the  darkness  and  wild  light 
That  fell  together  to  make  Vivian 
Been  there  before  them  then  to  flower  anew 
Through  sheathing  crimson  into  candle-light 
With  each  new  leer  of  their  loose,  liquorish  eyes. 
Again  he  drank,  and  he  cursed  every  king 
Who  might  have  touched  her  even  in  her  cradle; 
For  what  were  kings  to  such  as  he,  who  made  them 
And  saw  them  totter — for  the  .world  to  see, 
And  heed,  if  the  world  would?    He  drank  again, 
And  yet  again — to  make  himself  assured 
No  manner  of  king  should  have  the  last  of  it — 
The  cup  that  Vivian  filled  unfailingly 
Until  she  poured  for  nothing.     "At  the  end 
Of  this  incomparable  flowing  gold," 
She  prattled  on  to  Merlin,  who  observed 
Her  solemnly,  "I  fear  there  may  be  specks." — 
He  sighed  aloud,  whereat  she  laughed  at  him 
And  pushed  the  golden  cup  a  little  nearer. 
He  scanned  it  with  a  sad  anxiety, 

276 


MERLIN 

And  then  her  face  likewise,  and  shook  his  head 

As  if  at  her  concern  for  such  a  matter: 

"Specks?    What  are  specks ?    Are  you  afraid  of  them ?" 

He  murmured  slowly,  with  a  drowsy  tongue; 

"There  are  specks  everywhere.     I  fear  them  not. 

If  I  were  king  in  Camelot,  I  might 

Fear  more  than  specks.    But  now  I  fear  them  not. 

You  are  too  strange  a  lady  to  fear  specks." 

He  stared  a  long  time  at  the  cup  of  gold 
Before  him  but  he  drank  no  more.    There  came 
Between  him  and  the  world  a  crumbling  sky 
Of  black  and  crimson,  with  a  crimson  cloud 
That  held  a  far  off  town  of  many  towers. 
All  swayed  and  shaken,  till  at  last  they  fell, 
And  there  was  nothing  but  a  crimson  cloud 
That  crumbled  into  nothing,  like  the  sky 
That  vanished  with  it,  carrying  away 
The  world,  the  woman,  and  all  memory  of  them, 
Until  a  slow  light  of  another  sky 
Made  gray  an  open  casement,  showing  him 
Faint  shapes  of  an  exotic  furniture 
That  glimmered  with  a  dim  magnificence, 
And  letting  in  the  sound  of  many  birds 
That  were,  as  he  lay  there  remembering, 
The  only  occupation  of  his  ears 
Until  it  seemed  they  shared  a  fainter  sound, 
As  if  a  sleeping  child  with  a  black  head 
Beside  him  drew  the  breath  of  innocence. 

One  shining  afternoon  around  the  fountain, 
As  on  the  shining  day  of  his  arrival, 
The  sunlight  was  alive  with  flying  silver 
That  had  for  Merlin  a  more  dazzling  flash 
Than  jewels  rained  in  dreams,  and  a  richer  sound 

277 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Than  harps,  and  all  the  morning  stars  together, — 
When  jewels  and  harps  and  stars  and  everything 
That  flashed  and  sang  and  was  not  Vivian, 
Seemed  less  than  echoes  of  her  least  of  words — 
For  she  was  coming.     Suddenly,  somewhere 
Behind  him,  she  was  coming;  that  was  all 
He  knew  until  she  came  and  took  his  hand 
And  held  it  while  she  talked  about  the  fishes. 
When  she  looked  up  he  thought  a  softer  light 
Was  in  her  eyes  than  once  he  had  found  there; 
And  had  there  been  left  yet  for  dusky  women 
A  beauty  that  was  heretofore  not  hers, 
He  told  himself  he  must  have  seen  it  then 
Before  him  in  the  face  at  which  he  smiled 
And  trembled.     "Many  men  have  called  me  wise," 
He  said,  "but  you  are  wiser  than  all  wisdom 
If  you  know  what  you  are." — "I  don't,"  she  said; 
"I  know  that  you  and  I  are  here  together; 
I  know  that  I  have  known  for  twenty  years 
That  life  would  be  almost  a  constant  yawning 
Until  you  came;  and  now  that  you  are  here, 
I  know  that  you  are  not  to  go  away 
Until  you  tell  me  that  I'm  hideous; 
I  know  that  I  like  fishes,  ferns,  and  snakes, — 
Maybe  because  I  liked  them  when  the  world 
Was  young  and  you  and  I  were  salamanders; 
I  know,  too,  a  cool  place  not  far  from  here, 
Where  there  are  ferns  that  are  like  marching  men 
Who  never  march  away.    Come  now  and  see  them, 
And  do  as  they  do — never  march  away. 
When  they  are  gone,  some  others,  crisp  and  green, 
Will  have  their  place,  but  never  march  away." — 
He  smoothed  her  silky  fingers,  one  by  one : 
"Some  other  Merlin,  also,  do  you  think, 
Will  have  his  place — and  never  march  away?" — 

278 


MERLIN 

Then  Vivian  laid  a  finger  on  his  lips 
And  shook  her  head  at  him  before  she  laughed: 
"There  is  no  other  Merlin  than  yourself, 
And  you  are  never  going  to  be  old." 

Oblivious  of  a  world  that  made  of  him 

A  jest,  a  legend,  and  a  long  regret, 

And  with  a  more  commanding  wizardry 

Than  his  to  rule  a  kingdom  where  the  king 

Was  Love  and  the  queen  Vivian,  Merlin  found 

His  queen  without  the  blemish  of  a  word 

That  was  more  rough  than  honey  from  her  lips, 

Or  the  first  adumbration  of  a  frown 

To  cloud  the  night-wild  fire  that  in  her  eyes 

Had  yet  a  smoky  friendliness  of  home, 

And  a  foreknowing  care  for  mighty  trifles. 

"There  are  miles  and  miles  for  you  to  wander  in," 

She  told  him  once:     "Your  prison  yard  is  large, 

And  I  would  rather  take  my  two  ears  off 

And  feed  them  to  the  fishes  in  the  fountain 

Than  buzz  like  an  incorrigible  bee 

For  always  around  yours,  and  have  you  hate 

The  sound  of  me;  for  some  day  then,  for  certain, 

Your  philosophic  rage  would  see  in  me 

A  bee  in  earnest,  and  your  hand  would  smite 

My  life  away.    And  what  would  you  do  then? 

I  know:  for  years  and  years  you'd  sit  alone 

Upon  my  grave,  and  be  the  grieving  image 

Of  lean  remorse,  and  suffer  miserably; 

And  often,  all  day  long,  you'd  only  shake 

Your  celebrated  head  and  all  it  holds, 

Or  beat  it  with  your  fist  the  while  you  groaned 

Aloud  and  went  on  saying  to  yourself: 

'Never  should  I  have  killed  her,  or  believed 

She  was  a  bee  that  buzzed  herself  to  death, 

279 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

First  having  made  me  crazy,  had  there  been 
Judicious  distance  and  wise  absences 
To  keep  the  two  of  us  inquisitive.' " — 
"I  fear  you  bow  your  unoffending  head 
Before  a  load  that  should  be  mine,"  said  he; 
"If  so,  you  led  me  on  by  listening. 

You  should  have  shrieked  and  jumped,  and  then  fled  yelling; 
That's  the  best  way  when  a  man  talks  too  long. 
God's  pity  on  me  if  I  love  your  feet 
More  now  than  I  could  ever  love  the  face 
Of  any  one  of  all  those  Vivians 
You  summoned  out  of  nothing  on  the  night 
When  I  saw  towers.    I'll  wander  and  amend." — 
At  that  she  flung  the  noose  of  her  soft  arms 
Around  his  neck  and  kissed  him  instantly: 
''You  are  the  wisest  man  that  ever  was, 
And  I've  a  prayer  to  make :    May  all  you  say 
To  Vivian  be  a  part  of  what  you  knew 
Before  the  curse  of  her  unquiet  head 
Was  on  your  shoulder,  as  you  have  it  now, 
To  punish  you  for  knowing  beyond  knowledge. 
You  are  the  only  one  who  sees  enough 
To  make  me  see  how  far  away  I  am 
From  all  that  I  have  seen  and  have  not  been; 
You  are  the  only  thing  there  is  alive 
Between  me  as  I  am  and  as  I  was 
When  Merlin  was  a  dream.    You  are  to  listen 
When  I  say  now  to  you  that  I'm  alone. 
Like  you,  I  saw  too  much ;  and  unlike  you 
I  made  no  kingdom  out  of  what  I  saw — 
Or  none  save  this  one  here  that  you  must  rule, 
Believing  you  are  ruled.    I  see  too  far 
To  rule  myself.     Time's  way  with  you  and  me 
Is  our  way,  in  that  we  are  out  of  Time 
And  out  of  tune  with  Time.    We  have  this  place, 

280 


MERLIN 

And  you  must  hold  us  in  it  or  we  die. 

Look  at  me  now  and  say  if  what  I  say 

Be  folly  or  not;  for  my  unquiet  head 

Is  no  conceit  of  mine.    I  had  it  first 

When  I  was  born;  and  I  shall  have  it  with  me 

Till  my  unquiet  soul  is  on  its  way 

To  be,  I  hope,  where  souls  are  quieter. 

So  let  the  first  and  last  activity 

Of  what  you  say  so  often  is  your  love 

Be  always  to  remember  that  our  lyres 

Are  not  strung  for  Today.  On  you  it  falls 

To  keep  them  in  accord  here  with  each  other, 

For  you  have  wisdom,  I  have  only  sight 

For  distant  things — and  you.    And  you  are  Merlin. 

Poor  wizard !    Vivian  is  your  punishment 

For  making  kings  of  men  who  are  not  kings ; 

And  you  are  mine,  by  the  same  reasoning, 

For  living  out  of  Time  and  out  of  tune 

With  anything  but  you.    No  other  man 

Could  make  me  say  so  much  of  what  I  know( 

As  I  say  now  to  you.    And  you  are  Merlin!'* 

She  looked  up  at  him  till  his  way  was  lost 
Again  in  the  familiar  wilderness 
Of  night  that  love  made  for  him  in  her  eyes, 
And  there  he  wandered  as  he  said  he  would; 
He  wandered  also  in  his  prison-yard, 
And,  when  he  found  her  coming  after  him, 
Beguiled  her  with  her  own  admonishing 
And  frowned  upon  her  with  a  fierce  reproof 
That  many  a  time  in  the  old  world  outside 
Had  set  the  mark  of  silence  on  strong  men— 
Whereat  she  laughed,  not  always  wholly  sure, 
Nor  always  wholly  glad,  that  he  who  played 
So  lightly  was  the  wizard  of  her  dreams : 

281 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"No  matter — if  only  Merlin  keep  the  world 
Away,"  she  thought.     "Our  lyres  have  many  strings, 
But  he  must  know  them  all,  for  he  is  Merlin." 

And  so  for  years,  till  ten  of  them  were  gone, — 

Ten  years,  ten  seasons,  or  ten  flying  ages — 

Fate  made  Broceliande  a  paradise, 

By  none  invaded,  until  Dagonet, 

Like  a  discordant,  awkward  bird  of  doom, 

Flew  in  with  Arthur's  message.    For  the  King, 

In  sorrow  cleaving  to  simplicity, 

And  having  in  his  love  a  quick  remembrance 

Of  Merlin's  old  affection  for  the  fellow, 

Had  for  this  vain,  reluctant  enterprise 

Appointed  him — the  knight  who  made  men  laugh, 

And  was  a  fool  because  he  played  the  fool. 

"The  King  believes  today,  as  in  his  boyhood, 
That  I  am  Fate;  and  I  can  do  no  more 
Than  show  again  what  in  his  heart  he  knows," 
.Said  Merlin  to  himself  and  Vivian : 
"This  time  I  go  because  I  made  him  King, 
Thereby  to  be  a  mirror  for  the  world; 
This  time  I  go,  but  never  after  this, 
For  I  can  be  no  more  than  what  I  was, 
And  I  can  do  no  more  than  I  have  done." 
He  took  her  slowly  in  his  arms  and  felt 
Her  body  throbbing  like  a  bird  against  him : 
"This  time  I  go ;  I  go  because  I  must." 

And  in  the  morning,  when  hp  rode  away 

With  Dagonet  and  Blaise  through  the  same  gate 

That  once  had  clanged  as^if  to  shut  for  ever, 

She  had  not  even  asked  m'm  not  to  go; 

For  it  was  then  that  ir*  his  lonely  gaze 

282 


MERLIN 

Of  helpless  love  and  sad  authority 
She  found  the  gleam  of  his  imprisoned  power 
That  Fate  withheld;  and,  pitying  herself, 
She  pitied  the  fond  Merlin  she  had  changed, 
And  saw  the  Merlin  who  had  changed  the  world. 

YI 

"No  kings  are  coming  on  their  hands  and  knees, 

Nor  yet  on  horses  or  in  chariots, 

To  carry  me  away  from  you  again," 

Said  Merlin,  winding  around  Vivian's  ear 

A  shred  of  her  black  hair.    "King  Arthur  knows 

That  I  have  done  with  kings,  and  that  I  speak 

No  more  their  crafty  language.     Once  I  knew  it, 

But  now  the  only  language  I  have  left 

Is  one  that  I  must  never  let  you  hear 

Too  long,  or  know  too  well.    When  towering  deeds 

Once  done  shall  only  out  of  dust  and  words 

Be  done  again,  the  doer  may  then  be  wary 

Lest  in  the  complement  of  his  new  fabric 

There  be  more  words  than  dust." 

"Why  tell  me  so?" 

Said  Vivian;  and  a  singular  thin  laugh 
Came  after  her  thin  question.     "Do  you  think 
That  I'm  so  far  away  from  history 
That  I  require,  even  of  the  wisest  man 
Who  ever  said  the  wrong  thing  to  a  woman, 
So  large  a  light  on  what  I  know  already — 
When  all  I  seek  is  here  before  me  now 
In  your  new  eyes  that  you  have  brought  for  me 
From  Camelot?    The  eyes  you  took  away 
Were  sad  and  old;  and  I  could  see  in  them 
A  Merlin  who  remembered  all  the  kings 

283 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  ever  saw,  and  wished  himself,  almost, 
Away  from  Vivian,  to  make  other  kings, 
And  shake  the  world  again  in  the  old  manner. 
I  saw  myself  no  bigger  than  a  beetle 
For  several  days,  and  wondered  if  your  love 
Were  large  enough  to  make  me  any  larger 
When  you  came  back.    Am  I  a  beetle  still?" 
She  stood  up  on  her  toes  and  held  her  cheek 
For  some  time  against  his,  and  let  him  go. 

"I  fear  the  time  has  come  for  me  to  wander 
A  little  in  my  prison-yard,"  he  said. — 
"No,  tell  me  everything  that  you  have  seen 
And  heard  and  done,  and  seen  done,  and  heard  done, 
Since  you  deserted  me.    And  tell  me  first 
What  the  King  thinks  of  me." — "The  King  believes 
That  you  are  almost  what  you  are,"  he  told  her : 
"The  beauty  of  all  ages  that  are  vanished, 
Reborn  to  be  the  wonder  of  one  woman." — 
"I  knew  he  hated  me.    What  else  of  him?" — 
"And  all  that  I  have  seen  and  heard  and  done, 
Which  is  not  much,  would  make  a  weary  telling; 
And  all  your  part  of  it  would  be  to  sleep, 
And  dream  that  Merlin  had  his  beard  again." — 
"Then  tell  me  more  about  your  good  fool  knight, 
Sir  Dagonet.    If  Blaise  were  not  half-mad 
Already  with  his  pondering  on  the  name 
And  shield  of  his  unshielding  nameless  father, 
I'd  make  a  fool  of  him.    I'd  call  him  Ajax; 
I'd  have  him  shake  his  fist  at  thunder-storms, 
And  dance  a  jig  as  long  as  there  was  lightning, 
And  so  till  I  forgot  myself  entirely. 
Not  even  your  love  may  do  so  much  as  that." — 
"Thunder  and  lightning  are  no  friends  of  mine," 
Said  Merlin  slowly,  "more  than  they  are  yours; 

284 


MERLIN 

They  bring  me  nearer  to  the  elements 

From  which  I  came  than  I  care  now  to  be." — 

"You  owe  a  service  to  those  elements; 

For  by  their  service  you  outwitted  age 

And  made  the  world  a  kingdom  of  your  will." — 

He  touched  her  hand,  smiling :    "Whatever  service 

Of  mine  awaits  them  will  not  be  forgotten," 

He  said;  and  the  smile  faded  on  his  face. — 

"Now  of  all  graceless  and  ungrateful  wizards — " 

But  there  she  ceased,  for  she  found  in  his  eyes 

The  first  of  a  new  fear.    "The  wrong  word  rules 

Today,"  she  said;  "and  we'll  have  no  more  journeys." 

Although  he  wandered  rather  more  than  ever 
Since  he  had  come  again  to  Brittany 
From  Camelot,  Merlin  found  eternally 
Before  him  a  new  loneliness  that  made 
Of  garden,  park,  and  woodland,  all  alike, 
A  desolation  and  a  changelessness 
Defying  reason,  without  Vivian 
Beside  him,  like  a  child  with  a  black  head, 
Or  moving  on  before  him,  or  somewhere 
So  near  him  that,  although  he  saw  it  not 
With  eyes,  he  felt  the  picture  of  her  beauty 
And  shivered  at  the  nearness  of  her  being. 
Without  her  now  there  was  no  past  or  future, 
And  a  vague,  soul-consuming  premonition 
He  found  the  only  tenant  of  the  present; 
He  wondered,  when  she  was  away  from  him, 
If  his  avenging  injured  intellect 
Might  shine  with  Arthur's  kingdom  a  twin  mirror, 
Fate's  plaything,  for  new  ages  without  eyes 
JTo  see  therein  themselves  and  their  declension. 
Love  made  his  hours  a  martyrdom  without  her; 
The  world  was  like  an  empty  house  without  her, 

285 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Where  Merlin  was  a  prisoner  of  love 

Confined  within  himself  by  too  much  freedom, 

Eepeating  an  unending  exploration 

Of  many  solitary  silent  rooms, 

And  only  in  a  way  remembering  now 

That  once  their  very  solitude  and  silence 

Had  by  the  magic  of  expectancy 

Made  sure  what  now  he  doubted — though  his  doubts, 

Day  after  day,  were  founded  on  a  shadow. 


For  now  to  Merlin,  in  his  paradise, 

Had  come  an  unseen  angel  with  a  sword 

Unseen,  the  touch  of  which  was  a  long  fear 

For  longer  sorrow  that  had  never  come, 

Yet  might  if  he  compelled  it.    He  discovered, 

One  golden  day  in  autumn  as  he  wandered, 

That  he  had  made  the  radiance  of  two  years 

A  misty  twilight  when  he  might  as  well 

Have  had  no  mist  between  him  and  the  sun, 

The  sun  being  Vivian.     On  his  coming  then 

To  find  her  all  in  green  against  a  wall 

Of  green  and  yellow  leaves,  and  crumbling  bread 

For  birds  around  the  fountain  while  she  sang 

And  the  birds  ate  the  bread,  he  told  himself 

That  everything  today  was  as  it  was 

At  first,  and  for  a  minute  he  believed  it. 

"I'd  have  you  always  all  in  green  out  here," 

He  said,  "if  I  had  much  to  say  about  it." — 

She  clapped  her  crumbs  away  and  laughed  at  him : 

"I've  covered  up  my  bones  with  every  color 

That  I  can  carry  on  them  without  screaming, 

And  you  have  liked  them  all — or  made  me  think  so."- 

"I  must  have  liked  them  if  you  thought  I  did," 

He  answered,  sighing;  "but  the  sight  of  you 

286 


MERLIN 

Today  as  on  the  day  I  saw  you  first, 

All  green,  all  wonderful"  .  .  .  He  tore  a  leaf 

To  pieces  with  a  melancholy  care 

That  made  her  smile. — "Why  pause  at  'wonderful'  ? 

You've  hardly  been  yourself  since  you  came  back 

From  Camelot,  where  that  unpleasant  King 

Said  things  that  you  have  never  said  to  me." — 

He  looked  upon  her  with  a  worn  reproach: 

"The  King  said  nothing  that  I  keep  from  you." — 

"What  is  it  then?"  she  asked,  imploringly; 

"You  man  of  moods  and  miracles,  what  is  it?" — 

He  shook  his  head  and  tore  another  leaf: 

"There  is  no  need  of  asking  what  it  is; 

Whatever  you  or  I  may  choose  to  name  it, 

The  name  of  it  is  Fate,  who  played  with  me 

And  gave  me  eyes  to  read  of  the  unwritten 

More  lines  than  I  have  read.    I  see  no  more 

Today  than  yesterday,  but  I  remember. 

My  ways  are  not  the  ways  of  other  men; 

My  memories  go  forward.    It  was  you 

Who  said  that  we  were  not  in  tune  with  Time;/ 

It  was  not  I  who  said  it." — "But  you  knew  it;   ; 

What  matter  then  who  said  it?" — "It  was  you^ 

Who  said  that  Merlin  was  your  punishment 

For  being  in  tune  with  him  and  not  with  Time-^ 

With  Time  or  with  the  world;  and  it  was  you 

Who  said  you  were  alone,  even  here  with  Merlin; 

It  was  not  I  who  said  it.    It  is  I 

Who  tell  you  now  my  inmost  thoughts."    He  laughed 

As  if  at  hidden  pain  around  his  heart, 

But  there  was  not  much  laughing  in  his  eyes. 

They  walked,  and  for  a  season  they  were  silent: 

"I  shall  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  she  said, 

"When  you  have  told  me.    Here's  an  oak  you  like, 

And  here's  a  place  that  fits  me  wondrous  well 

287 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

To  sit  in.    You  sit  there.    I've  seen  you  there 
Before;  and  I  have  spoiled  your  noble  thoughts 
By  walking  all  my  fingers  up  and  down 
Your  countenance,  as  if  they  were  the  feet 
Of  a  small  animal  with  no  great  claws. 
Tell  me  a  story  now  about  the  world, 
And  the  men  in  it,  what  they  do  in  it, 
And  why  it  is  they  do  it  all  so  badly." — 

*w      S  "I've  told  you  every  story  that  I  know, 
S   /    Almost,"  he  said.— "0,  don't  begin  like  that."— 
"Well,  once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  King." — 
"That  has  a  more  commendable  address; 

S    \     Go  on,  and  tell  me  all  about  the  King; 
M    V    I'll  bet  the  King  had  warts  or  carbuncles, 
Or  something  wrong  in  his  divine  insides, 
To  make  him  wish  that  Adam  had  died  young." 

Merlin  observed  her  slowly  with  a  frown 
Of  saddened  wonder.     She  laughed  rather  lightly, 
And  at  his  heart  he  felt  again  the  sword 
Whose  touch  was  a  long  fear  for  longer  sorrow. 
"Well,  once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  king," 
He  said  again,  but  now  in  a  dry  voice 
That  wavered  and  betrayed  a  venturing. 
He  paused,  and  would  have  hesitated  longer, 
But  something  in  him  that  was  not  himself 
Compelled  an  utterance  that  his  tongue  obeyed, 
As  an  unwilling  child  obeys  a  father 
Who  might  be  richer  for  obedience 
If  he  obeyed  the  child :  "There  was  a  king 
Who  would  have  made  his  reign  a  monument 
For  kings  and  peoples  of  the  waiting  ages 
To  reverence  and  remember,  and  to  this  end 
He  coveted  and  won,  with  no  ado 
To  make  a  story  of,  a  neighbor  queen 

288 


MERLIN 

Who  limed  him  with  her  smile  and  had  of  him, 

In  token  of  their  sin,  what  he  found  soon 

To  be  a  sort  of  mongrel  son  and  nephew — 

And  a  most  precious  reptile  in  addition — 

To  ornament  his  court  and  carry  arms, 

And  latterly  to  be  the  darker  half 

Of  ruin.    Also  the  king,  who  made  of  love 

More  than  he  made  of  life  and  death  together, 

Forgot  the  world  and  his  example  in  it 

For  yet  another  woman — one  of  many — 

And  this  one  he  made  Queen,  albeit  he  knew 

That  her  unsworn  allegiance  to  the  knight 

That  he  had  loved  the  best  of  all  his  order 

Must  one  day  bring  along  the  coming  end 

Of  love  and  honor  and  of  everything; 

And  with  a  kingdom  builded  on  two  pits 

Of  living  sin, — so  founded  by  the  will 

Of  one  wise  counsellor  who  loved  the  king, 

And  loved  the  world  and  therefore  made  him  king 

To  be  a  mirror  for  it, — the  king  reigned  well 

For  certain  years,  awaiting  a  sure  doom; 

For  certain  years  he  waved  across  the  world 

A  royal  banner  with  a  Dragon  on  it; 

And  men  of  every  land  fell  worshipping 

The  Dragon  as  it  were  the  living  God, 

And  not  the  living  sin." 

She  rose  at  that, 

And  after  a  calm  yawn,  she  looked  at  Merlin : 
"Why  all  this  new  insistence  upon  sin?" 
She  said ;  "I  wonder  if  I  understand 
This  king  of  yours,  with  all  his  pits  and  dragons; 
I  know  I  do  not  like  him."    A  thinner  light 
Was  in  her  eyes  than  he  had  found  in  them 
Since  he  became  the  willing  prisoner 

289 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  she  had  made  of  him ;  and  on  her  mouth 

Lay  now  a  colder  line  of  irony 

Than  all  his  fears  or  nightmares  could  have  drawn 

Before  today:    "What  reason  do  you  know 

For  me  to  listen  to  this  king  of  yours? 

What  reading  has  a  man  of  woman's  days, 

Even  though  the  man  be  Merlin  and  a  prophet  ?" 

"I  know  no  call  for  you  to  love  the  king," 

Said  Merlin,  driven  ruinously  along 

By  the  vindictive  urging  of  his  fate; 

"I  know  no  call  for  you  to  love  the  king, 

Although  you  serve  him,  knowing  not  yet  the  king 

You  serve.    There  is  no  man,  or  any  woman, 

For  whom  the  story  of  the  living  king 

Is  not  the  story  of  the  living  sin. 

I  thought  my  story  was  the  common  one, 

For  common  recognition  and  regard." 

"Then  let  us  have  no  more  of  it,"  she  said; 
"For  we  are  not  so  common,  I  believe, 
That  we  need  kings  and  pits  and  flags  and  dragons 
To  make  us  know  that  we  have  let  the  world 
Go  by  us.    Have  you  missed  the  world  so  much 
That  you  must  have  it  in  with  all  its  clots 
And  wounds  and  bristles  on  to  make  us  happy — 
Like  Blaise,  with  shouts  and  horns  and  seven  men 
Triumphant  with  a  most  unlovely  boar  ? 
Is  there  no  other  story  in  the  world 
Than  this  one  of  a  man  that  you  made  king 
To  be  a  moral  for  the  speckled  ages  ? 
You  said  once  long  ago,  if  you  remember, 
'You  are  too  strange  a  lady  to  fear  specks'; 
And  it  was  you,  you  said,  who  feared  them  not. 
'hy  do  you  look  at  me  as  at  a  snake 

290 


MERLIN 

All  coiled  to  spring  at  you  and  strike  you  dead? 
I  am  not  going  to  spring  at  you,  or  bite  you ; 
I'm  going  home.    And  you,  if  you  are  kind, 
Will  have  no  fear  to  wander  for  an  hour. 
I'm  sure  the  time  has  come  for  you  to  wander; 
And  there  may  come  a  time  for  you  to  say 
What  most  you  think  it  is  that  we  need  here 
To  make  of  this  Broceliande  a  refuge 
Where  two  disheartened  sinners  may  forget 
A  world  that  has  today  no  place  for  them." 

A  melancholy  wave  of  revelation 

Broke  over  Merlin  like  a  rising  sea, 

Long  viewed  unwillingly  and  long  denied. 

He  saw  what  he  had  seen,  but  would  not  feel, 

Till  now  the  bitterness  of  what  he  felt 

Was  in  his  throat,  and  all  the  coldness  of  it 

Was  on  him  and  around  him  like  a  flood 

Of  lonelier  memories  than  he  had  said 

Were  memories,  although  he  knew  them  now 

For  what  they  were — for  what  his  eyes  had  seen, 

For  what  his  ears  had  heard  and  what  his  heart 

Had  felt,  with  him  not  knowing  what  it  felt. 

But  now  he  knew  that  his  cold  angel's  name 

Was  Change,  and  that  a  mightier  will  than  his 

Or  Vivian's  had  ordained  that  he  be  there. 

To  Vivian  he  could  not  say  anything 

But  words  that  had  no  more  of  hope  in  them 

Than  anguish  had  of  peace :  "I  meant  the  world  .  .  . 

I  meant  the  world,"  he  groaned ;  "not  you — not  me." 

Again  the  frozen  line  of  irony 
Was  on  her  mouth.    He  looked  up  once  at  it. 
And  then  away — too  fearful  of  her  eyes 
To  see  what  he  could  hear  now  in  her  laugh 

291 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  melted  slowly  into  what  she  said, 
Like  snow  in  icy  water:  "This  world  of  yours 
Will  surely  be  the  end  of  us.    And  why  not? 
I'm  overmuch  afraid  we're  part  of  it, — 
Or  why  do  we  build  walls  up  all  around  us, 
With  gates  of  iron  that  make  us  think  the  day 
Of  judgment's  coming  when  they  clang  behind  us  ? 
And  yet  you  tell  me  that  you  fear  no  specks ! 
With  you  I  never  cared  for  them  enough 
To  think  of  them.    I  was  too  strange  a  lady. 
And  your  return  is  now  a  speckled  king 
And  something  that  you  call  a  living  sin — 
That's  like  an  uninvited  poor  relation 
Who  comes  without  a  welcome,  rather  late, 
And  on  a  foundered  horse." 

"Specks?    What  are  specks?" 
He  gazed  at  her  in  a  forlorn  wonderment 
That  made  her  say :    "You  said,  'I  fear  them  not.' 
'If  I  were  king  in  Camelot,'  you  said, 
'I  might  fear  more  than  specks.'    Have  you  forgotten? 
Don't  tell  me,  Merlin,  you  are  growing  old. 
Why  don't  you  make  somehow  a  queen  of  me, 
And  give  me  half  the  world  ?    I'd  wager  thrushes 
That  I  should  reign,  with  you  to  turn  the  wheel, 
As  well  as  any  king  that  ever  was. 
The  curse  on  me  is  that  I  cannot  serve 
A  ruler  who  forgets  that  he  is  king." 

In  his  bewildered  misery  Merlin  then 
Stared  hard  at  Vivian's  face,  more  like  a  slave 
Who  sought  for  common  mercy  than  like  Merlin: 
"You  speak  a  language  that  was  never  mine, 
Or  I  have  lost  my  wits.    Why  do  you  seize 
The  flimsiest  of  opportunities 

292 


MERLIN 

To  make  of  what  I  said  another  thing 

Than  love  or  reason  could  have  let  me  say, 

Or  let  me  fancy  ?    Why  do  you  keep  the  truth 

So  far  away  from  me,  when  all  your  gates 

Will  open  at  your  word  and  let  me  go 

To  some  place  where  no  fear  or  weariness 

Of  yours  need  ever  dwell  ?    Why  does  a  woman, 

Made  otherwise  a  miracle  of  love 

And  loveliness,  and  of  immortal  beauty, 

Tear  one  word  by  the  roots  out  of  a  thousand, 

And  worry  it,  and  torture  it,  and  shake  it, 

Like  a  small  dog  that  has  a  rag  to  play  with  ? 

What  coil  of  an  ingenious  destiny 

Is  this  that  makes  of  what  I  never  meant 

A  meaning  as  remote  as  hell  from  heaven  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Vivian  said  reluctantly, 
And  half  as  if  in  pain;  "I'm  going  home. 
I'm  going  home  and  leave  you  here  to  wander, 
P,ray  take  your  kings  and  sins  away  somewhere 
And  bury  them,  and  bury  the  Queen  in  also. 
I  know  this  king;  he  lives  in  Camelot, 
And  I  shall  never  like  him.    There  are  specks 
Almost  all  over  him.    Long  live  the  king, 
But  not  the  king  who  lives  in  Camelot, 
With  Modred,  Lancelot,  and  Guinevere — 
And  all  four  speckled  like  a  merry  nest 
Of  addled  eggs  together.    You  made  him  King 
Because  you  loved  the  world  and  saw  in  him 
From  infancy  a  mirror  for  the  millions. 
The  world  will  see  itself  in  him,  and  then 
The  world  will  say  its  prayers  and  wash  its  face, 
And  build  for  some  new  king  a  new  foundation. 
Long  live  the  King!  .  .  .  But  now  I  apprehend 
A  time  for  me  to  shudder  and  grow  old 

293 


And  garrulous — and  so  become  a  fright 

For  Blaise  to  take  out  walking  in  warm  weather — 

Should  I  give  way  to  long  considering 

Of  worlds  you  may  have  lost  while  prisoned  here 

With  me  and  my  light  mind.    I  contemplate 

Another  name  for  this  forbidden  place, 

And  one  more  fitting.    Tell  me,  if  you  find  it, 

Some  fitter  name  than  Eden.    We  have  had 

A  man  and  woman  in  it  for  some  time, 

And  now,  it  seems,  we  have  a  Tree  of  Knowledge." 

She  looked  up  at  the  branches  overhead 

And  shrugged  hex  shoulders.    Then  she  went  away; 

And  what  was  left  of  Merlin's  happiness, 

Like  a  disloyal  phantom,  followed  her. 

He  felt  the  sword  of  his  cold  angel  thrust 
And  twisted  in  his  heart,  as  if  the  end 
Were  coming  next,  but  the  cold  angel  passed 
Invisibly  and  left  him  desolate, 
With  misty  brow  and  eyes.     "The  man  who  sees 
May  see  too  far,  and  he  may  see  too  late 
The  path  he  takes  unseen,"  he  told  himself 
When  he  found  thought  again.    "The  man  who  sees 
May  go  on  seeing  till  the  immortal  flame 
That  lights  and  lures  him  folds  him  in  its  heart, 
And  leaves  of  what  there  was  of  him  to  die 
An  item  of  inhospitable  dust 
That  love  and  hate  alike  must  hide  away; 
Or  there  may  still  be  charted  for  his  feet 
A  dimmer  faring,  where  the  touch  of  time 
Were  like  the  passing  of  a  twilight  moth 
From  flower  to  flower  into  oblivion, 
If  there  were  not  somewhere  a  barren  end 
Of  moths  and  flowers,  and  glimmering  far  away 
Beyond  a  desert  where  the  flowerless  days 

294 


MERLIN 

Are  told  in  slow  defeats  and  agonies, 
The  guiding  of  a  nameless  light  that  once 
Had  made  him  see  too  much — and  has  by  now 
Eevealed  in  death,  to  the  undying  child 
Of  Lancelot,  the  Grail.    For  this  pure  light 
Has  many  rays  to  throw,  for  many  men 
To  follow;  and  the  wise  are  not  all  pure, 
Nor  are  the  pure  all  wise  who  follow  it. 
There  are  more  rays  than  men.    But  let  the  man 
Who  saw  too  much,  and  was  to  drive  himself 
From  paradise,  play  too  lightly  or  too  long      >v 
Among  the  moths  and  flowers,  he  finds  at  last   j 
There  is  a  dim  way  out;  and  he  shall  grope      / 
Where  pleasant  shadows  lead  him  to  the  plain  x, 
That  has  no  shadow  save  his  own  behind  him.    { 
And  there,  with  no  complaint,  nor  much  regret, 
Shall  he  plod  on,  with  death  between  him  now 
And  the  far  light  that  guides  him,  till  he  falls 
And  has  an  empty  thought  of  empty  rest; 
Then  Fate  will  put  a  mattock  in  his  hands 
And  lash  him  while  he  digs  himself  the  grave 
That  is  to  be  the  pallet  and  the  shroud 
Of  his  poor  blundering  bones.    The  man  who  saw 
Too  much  must  have  an  eye  to  see  at  last 
Where  Fate  has  marked  the  clay ;  and  he  shall  delve, 
Although  his  hand  may  slacken,  and  his  knees 
May  rock  without  a  method  as  he  toils; 
For  there's  a  delving  that  is  to  be  done — 
If  not  for  God,  for  man.    I  see  the  light, 
But  I  shall  fall  before  I  come  to  it; 
For  I  am  old.    I  was  young  yesterday. 
Time's  hand  that  I  have  held  away  so  long 
Grips  hard  now  on  my  shoulder.     Time  has  won. 
Tomorrow  I  shall  say  to  Vivian 

295 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  I  am  old  and  gaunt  and  garrulous, 
And  tell  her  one  more  story :  I  am  old." 

\f  There  were  long  hours  for  Merlin  after  that, 
And  much  long  wandering  in  his  prison-yard, 
Where  now  the  progress  of  each  heavy  step 
Confirmed  a  stillness  of  impending  change 
And  imminent  farewj?ll.rTo~Vivian's  ear/ 
rkere~~caine  for  roanydays  no  other  storji 

\    IThan  Merlin's  iteration  of  his  love 
And  his  departure  from  Broceliande, 

Merlin  still  remained^  in  Vivian's  eye, 
There  was  a  quiet  kindness,  and  at  times 
A  smoky  flash  of  incredulity 
That  faded  into  pain.    Was  this  the  Merlin — 
This  incarnation  of  idolatry 
And  all  but  supplicating  deference — 
This  bowed  and  reverential  contradiction 
Of  all  her  dreams  and  her  realities — 
Was  this  the  Merlin  who  for  years  and  years 
Before  she  found  him  had  so  made  her  love  him, 
That  kings  and  princes,  thrones  and  diadems, 
And  honorable  men  who  drowned  themselves 
For  love,  were  less  to  her  than  melon-shells? 
Was  this  the  Merlin  whom  her  fate  had  sent 
One  spring  day  to  come  ringing  at  her  gate, 
Bewildering  her  love  with  happy  terror 
That  later  was  to  be  all  happiness? 
Was  this  the  Merlin  who  had  made  the  world  \ 
Half  over,  and  then  left  it  with  a  laugh 
To  be  the  youngest,  oldest,  weirdest,  gayest, 
And  wisest,  and  sometimes  the  foolishest 
Of  all  the  men  of  her  consideration? 
Was  this  the  man  who  had  made  other  men 
As  ordinary  as  arithmetic? 

296 


MERLIN 

Was  this  man  Merlin  who  came  now  so  slowly 
Towards  the  fountain  where  she  stood  again 
In  shimmering  green?     Trembling,  he  took  her  hands 
And  pressed  them  fondly,  one  upon  the  other, 
Between  his: 

"I  was  wrong  that  other  day, 
For  I  have  one  more  story.     I  am  old." 
He  waited  like  one  hungry  for  the  word 
Not  said;  and  she  found  in  his  eyes  a  ligh^ 
As  patient  as  a  candle  in  a  window 
That  looks  upon  the  sea  and  is  a  mark 
For  ships  that  have  gone  down.     "Tomorrow,"  he  said; 
"Tomorrow  I  shall  go  away  again 
To  Camelot;  and  I  shall  see  the  King 
Once  more;  and  I  may  come  to  you  again 
Once  more;  and  I  shall  go  away  again 
For  ever.     There  is  now  no  more  than  that 
For  me  to  do ;  and  I  shall  do  no  more. 
I  saw  too  much  when  I  saw  Camelot; 
And  I  saw  farther  backward  into  Time, 
And  forward,  than  a  man  may  see  and  live, 
When  I  made  Arthur  king.    I  saw  too  far, 
But  not  so  far  as  this.    Fate  played  with  me 
As  I  have  played  with  Time;  and  Time,  like  me, 
Being  less  than  Fate,  will  have  on  me  his  vengeance. 
On  Fate  there  is  no  vengeance,  even  for  God." 
He  drew  her  slowly  into  his  embrace 
And  held  her  there,  but  when  he  kissed  her  lips 
They  were  as  cold  as  leaves  and  had  no  answer; 
For  Time  had  given  him  then,  to  prove  his  words, 
A  frozen  moment  of  a  woman's  life. 

When  Merlin  the  next  morning  came  again 
In  the  same  pilgrim  robe  that  he  had  worn 

297 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

While  he  sat  waiting  where  the  cherry-blossoms 

Outside  the  gate  fell  on  him  and  around  him 

Grief  came  to  Vivian  at  the  sight  of  him ; 

And  like  a  flash  of  a  swift  ugly  knife, 

A  blinding  fear  came  with  it.    "Are  you  going?" 

She  said,  more  with  her  lips  than  with  her  voice; 

And  he  said,  "I  am  going.    Blaise  and  I 

Are  going  down  together  to  the  shore, 

And  Blaise  is  coming  back.    For  this  one  day 

Be  good  enough  to  spare  him,  for  I  like  him. 

I  tell  you  now,  as  once  I  told  the  King, 

That  I  can  be  no  more  than  what  I  was, 

And  I  can  say  no  more  than  I  have  said. 

Sometimes  you  told  me  that  I  spoke  too  long 

And  sent  me  off  to  wander.    That  was  good. 

I  go  now  for  another  wandering, 

And  I  pray  God  that  all  be  well  with  you." 

For  long  there  was  a  whining  in  her  ears 
Of  distant  wheels  departing.    When  it  ceased, 
She  closed  the  gate  again  so  quietly 
That  Merlin  could  have  heard  no  sound  of  it. 


vn 

BY  Merlin's  Rock,  where  Dagonet  the  fool 
Was  given  through  many  a  dying  afternoon 
To  sit  and  meditate  on  human  ways 
And  ways  divine,  Gawaine  and  Bedivere 
Stood  silent,  gazing  down  on  Camelot. 
The  two  had  risen  and  were  going  home: 
"It  hits  me  sore,  Gawaine,"  said  Bedivere, 
"To  think  on  all  the  tumult  and  affliction 
Down  there,  and  all  the  noise  and  preparation 

298 


That  hums  of  coming  death,  and,  if  my  fears 
Be  born  of  reason,  of  what's  more  than  death. 
Wherefore,  I  say  to  you  again,  Gawaine, — 
To  you — that  this  late  hour  is  not  too  late 
For  you  to  change  yourself  and  change  the  King: 
For  though  the  King  may  love  me  with  a  love 
More  tried,  and  older,  and  more  sure,  may  be, 
Than  for  another,  for  such  a  time  as  this 
The  friend  who  turns  him  to  the  world  again 
Shall  have  a  tongue  more  gracious  and  an  eye 
More  shrewd  than  mine.    For  such  a  time  as  this 
The  King  must  have  a  glamour  to  persuade  him." 

"The  King  shall  have  a  glamour,  and  anon," 
Gawaine  said,  and  he  shot  death  from  his  eyes; 
"If  you  were  King,  as  Arthur  is — or  was — 
And  Lancelot  had  carried  off  your  Queen, 
And  killed  a  score  or  so  of  your  best  knights — 
Not  mentioning  my  two  brothers,  whom  he  slew 
TJnarmored  and  unarmed — God  save  your  wits! 
Two  stewards  with  skewers  could  have  done  as  much, 
And  you  and  I  might  now  be  rotting  for  it." 

"But  Lancelot's  men  were  crowded, — they  were  crushed; 
And  there  was  nothing  for  them  but  to  strike 
Or  die,  not  seeing  where  they  struck.     Think  you 
They  would  have  slain  Gareth  and  Gaheris, 
And  Tor,  and  all  those  other  friends  of  theirs? 
God's  mercy  for  the  world  he  made,  I  say, 
And  for  the  blood  that  writes  the  story  of  it. 
Gareth  and  Gaheris,  Tor  and  Lamorak, — 
All  dead,  with  all  the  others  that  are  dead! 
These  years  have  made  me  turn  to  Lamorak 
For  counsel — and  now  Lamorak  is  dead." 

299 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Why  do  you  fling  those  two  names  in  my  face? 

'Twas  Modred  made  an  end  of  Lamorak, 

Not  I;  and  Lancelot  now  has  done  for  Tor. 

Fll  urge  no  king  on  after  Lancelot 

For  such  a  two  as  Tor  and  Lamorak : 

Their  father  killed  my  father,  and  their  friend 

Was  Lancelot,  not  I.    I'll  own  my  fault — 

I'm.  living;  and  while  I've  a  tongue  can  talk, 

Fll  say  this  to  the  King:    'Burn  Lancelot 

By  inches  till  he  give  you  back  the  Queen; 

Then  hang  him — drown  him — or  do  anything 

To  rid  the  world  of  him.'    He  killed  my  brothers, 

And  he  was  once  my  friend.     Now  damn  the  soul 

Of  him  who  killed  my  brothers!     There  you  have  me." 

"You  are  a  strong  man,  Gawaine,  and  your  strength 
Goes  ill  where  foes  are.    You  may  cleave  their  limbs 
And  heads  off,  but  you  cannot  damn  their  souls; 
What  you  may  do  now  is  to  save  their  souls, 
And  bodies  too,  and  like  enough  your  own. 
Remember  that  King  Arthur  is  a  king, 
And  where  there  is  a  king  there  is  a  kingdom. 
Is  not  the  kingdom  any  more  to  you 
Than  one  brief  enemy?    Would  you  see  it  fall 
And  the  King  with  it,  for  one  mortal  hate 
That  burns  out  reason?     Gawaine,  you  are  king 
Today.     Another  day  may  see  no  king 
But  Havoc,  if  you  have  no  other  word 
For  Arthur  now  than  hate  for  Lancelot. 
Is  not  the  world  as  large  as  Lancelot? 
Is  Lancelot,  because  one  woman's  eyes 
Are  brighter  when  they  look  on  him,  to  sluice 
The  world  with  angry  blood  ?    Poor  flesh !    Poor  flesh  I 
And  you,  Gawaine, — are  you  so  gaffed  with  bate"" 
You  cannot  leave  it  and  so  plunge  away 

300 


MERLIN 

To  stiller  places  and  there  see,  for  once, 
What  hangs  on  this  pernicious  expedition 
The  King  in  his  insane  forgetfulness 
Would  undertake — with  you  to  drum  him  on?  J 
Are  you  as  mad  as  he  and  Lancelot 
Made  ravening  into  one  man  twice  as  mad 
As  either?    Is  the  kingdom,  of  the  world, 
Now  rocking,  to  go  down  in  sound  and  blood 
And  ashes  and  sick  ruin,  and  for  the  sake 
Of  three  men  and  a  woman?    If  it  be  so, 
God's  mercy  for  the  world  he  made,  I  say, — 
And  say  again  to  Dagonet.     Sir  Fool, 
Your  throne  is  empty,  and  you  may  as  well 
Sit  on  it  and  be  ruler  of  the  world 
From  now  till  supper-time." 

Sir  Dagonet, 

Appearing,  made  reply  to  Bedivere's 
Dry  welcome  with  a  famished  look  of  pain, 
On  which  he  built  a  smile :     "If  I  were  King, 
You,  Bedivere,  should  be  my  counsellor; 
And  we  should  have  no  more  wars  over  women. 
I'll  sit  me  down  and  meditate  on  that." 
Gawaine,  for  all  his  anger,  laughed  a  little, 
And  clapped  the  fool's  lean  shoulder;  for  he  loved  him 
And  was  with  Arthur  when  he  made  him  knight. 
Then  Dagonet  said  on  to  Bedivere, 
As  if  his  tongue  would  make  a  jest  of  sorrow: 
"Sometime  I'll  tell  you  what  I  might  have  done 
Had  I  been  Lancelot  and  you  King  Arthur — 
Each  having  in  himself  the  vicious  essence 
That  now  lives  in  the  other  and  makes  war. 
When  all  men  are  like  you  and  me,  my  lord, 
When  all  are  rational  or  rickety, 
There  may  be  no  more  war.    But  what's  here  now? 

301 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Lancelot  loves  the  Queen,  and  he  makes  war 

Of  love;  the  King,  being  bitten  to  the  soul 

By  love  and  hate  that  work  in  him  together, 

Makes  war  of  madness;  Gawaine  hates  Lancelot, 

And  he,  to  be  in  tune,  makes  war  of  hate; 

Modred  hates  everything,  yet  he  can  see 

With  one  damned  illegitimate  small  eye 

His  father's  crown,  and  with  another  like  it 

He  sees  the  beauty  of  the  Queen  herself; 

He  needs  the  two  for  his  ambitious  pleasure, 

And  therefore  he  makes  war  of  his  ambition; 

And  somewhere  in  the  middle  of  all  this 

There's  a  squeezed  world  that  elbows  fo~  attention. 

Poor  Merlin,  buried  in  Broceliande! 

He  must  have  had  an  academic  eye 

For  woman  when  he  founded  Arthur's  kingdom, 

And  in  Broceliande  he  may  be  sorry. 

Flutes,  hautboys,  drums,  and  viols.    God  be  with  him  I 

I'm  glad  they  tell  me  there's  another  world, 

For  this  one's  a  disease  without  a  doctor." 

"No,  not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Bedivere; 

The  doctor,  like  ourselves,  may  now  be  learning; 

And  Merlin  may  have  gauged  his  enterprise 

Whatever  the  cost  he  may  have  paid  for  knowing. 

We  pass,  but  many  are  to  follow  us, 

And  what  they  build  may  stay;  though  I  believe 

Another  age  will  have  another  Merlin, 

Another  Camelot,  and  another  King. 

Sir  Dagonet,  farewell." 

"Farewell,  Sir  Knight, 

And  you,  Sir  Knight:   Gawaine,  you  have  the  world 
Now  in  your  fingers — an  uncommon  toy, 
Albeit  a  small  persuasion  in  the  balance 

302 


MERLIN 

With  one  man's  hate.    I'm  glad  you're  not  a  fool, 

For  then  you  might  be  rickety,  as  I  am, 

And  rational  as  Bedivere.     Farewell. 

I'll  sit  here  and  be  king.    God  save  the  King!" 

But  Gawaine  scowled  and  frowned  and  answered  nothing 
As  he  went  slowly  down  with  Bedivere 
To  Camelot,  where  Arthur's  army  waited 
The  King's  word  for  the  melancholy  march 
To  Joyous  Gard,  where  Lancelot  hid  the  Queen 
And  armed  his  host,  and  there  was  now  no  joy, 
As  there  was  now  no  joy  for  Dagonet 
While  he  sat  brooding,  with  his  wan  cheek-bones 
Hooked  with  his  bony  fingers:    "Go,  Gawaine," 
He  mumbled:     "Go  your  way,  and  drag  the  world 
Along  down  with  you.     What's  a  world  or  so 
To  you  if  you  can  hide  an  ell  of  iron 
Somewhere  in  Lancelot,  and  hear  him  wheeze 
And  sputter  once  or  twice  before  he  goes 
Wherever  the  Queen  sends  him?     There's  a  man 
Who  should  have  been  a  king,  and  would  have  been, 
Had  he  been  born  so.    So  should  I  have  been 
A  king,  had  I  been  born  so,  fool  or  no : 
King  Dagonet,  or  Dagonet  the  King; 
King-Fool,  Fool-King;  'twere  not  impossible. 
I'll  meditate  on  that  and  pray  for  Arthur, 
Who  made  me  all  I  am,  except  a  fool. 
Now  he  goes  mad  for  love,  as  I  might  go 
Had  I  been  born  a  king  and  not  a  fool. 
Today  I  think  I'd  rather  be  a  fool; 
Today  the  world  is  less  than  one  scared  woman — 
Wherefore  a  field  of  waving  men  may  soon 
Be  shorn  by  Time's  indifferent  scythe,  because 
The  King  is  mad.    The  seeds  of  history 
Are  small,  but  given  a  few  gouts  of  warm  blood 

303 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

For  quickening,  they  sprout  out  wondrously 

And  have  a  leaping  growth  whereof  no  man 

May  shun  such  harvesting  of  change  or  death, 

Or  life,  as  may  fall  on  him  to  be  borne 

When  I  am  still  alive  and  rickety, 

And  Bedivere's  alive  and  rational — 

If  he  come  out  of  this,  and  there's  a  doubt, — 

The  King,  Gawaine,  Modred,  and  Lancelot 

May  all  be  lying  underneath  a  weight 

Of  bloody  sheaves  too  heavy  for  their  shoulders 

All  spent,  and  all  dishonored,  and  all  dead; 

And  if  it  come  to  be  that  this  be  so, 

And  it  be  true  that  Merlin  saw  the  truth, 

Such  harvest  were  the  best.    Your  fool  sees  not 

So  far  as  Merlin  sees :  yet  if  he  saw 

The  truth — why  then,  such  harvest  were  the  best. 

I'll  pray  for  Arthur;  I  can  do  no  more." 

"Why  not  for  Merlin  ?    Or  do  you  count  him,  \ 

In  this  extreme,  so  foreign  to  salvation 

That  prayer  would  be  a  stranger  to  his  name?" 

Poor  Dagonet,  with  terror  shaking  him, 
Stood  up  and  saw  before  him  an  old  face 
Made  older  with  an  inch  of  silver  beard, 
And  faded  eyes  more  eloquent  of  pain 
And  ruin  than  all  the  faded  eyes  of  age 
Till  now  had  ever  been,  although  in  them 
There  was  a  mystic  and  intrinsic  peace 
Of  one  who  sees  where  men  of  nearer  sight 
See  nothing.     On  their  way  to  Camelot, 
Gawaine  and  Bedivere  had  passed  him  by, 
With  lax  attention  for  the  pilgrim  cloak 
They  passed,  and  what  it  hid :  yet  Merlin  saw 

304 


MERLIN 

Their  faces,  and  he  saw  the  tale  was  true 

That  he  had  lately  drawn  from  solemn  strangers. 

"Well,  Dagonet,  and  by  your  leave,"  he  said, 

"I'll  rest  my  lonely  relics  for  a  while 

On  this  rock  that  was  mine  and  now  is  yours. 

I  favor  the  succession;  for  you  know 

Far  more  than  many  doctors,  though  your  doubt 

Is  your  peculiar  poison.     I  foresaw 

Long  since,  and  I  have  latterly  been  told 

What  moves  in  this  commotion  down  below 

To  show  men  what  it  means.    It  means  the  end — 

If  men  whose  tongues  had  less  to  say  to  me 

Than  had  their  shoulders  are  adept  enough 

To  know;  and  you  may  pray  for  me  or  not, 

Sir  Friend,  Sir  Dagonet." 

"Sir  fool,  you  mean," 
Dagonet  said,  and  gazed  on  Merlin  sadly : 
"I'll  never  pray  again  for  anything, 
And  last  of  all  for  this  that  you  behold — 
The  smouldering  faggot  of  unlovely  bones 
That  God  has  given  to  me  to  call  Myself. 
When  Merlin  comes  to  Dagonet  for  prayer, 
It  is  indeed  the  end." 

"And  in  the  end 

Are  more  beginnings,  Dagonet,  than  men  v^      IP'1 

Shall  name  or  know  today.    It  was  the  end 
Of  Arthur's  insubstantial  majesty 
When  to  him  and  his  knights  the  Grail  foreshowed  \ 
The  quest  of  life  that  was  to  be  the  death 
Of  many,  and  the  slow  discouraging 
Of  many  more.    Or  do  I  err  in  this?" 

305 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"No,"  Dagonet  replied;  "there  was  a  Light; 

And  Galahad,  in  the  Siege  Perilous, 

Alone  of  all  on  whom  it  fell,  was  calm ; 

There  was  a  Light  wherein  men  saw  themselves 

In  one  another  as  they  might  become — 

Or  so  they  dreamed.    There  was  a  long  to-do, 

— And  Gawaine,  of  all  forlorn  ineligibles, 
Rose  up  the  first,  and  cried  more  lustily 
Than  any  after  him  that  he  should  find 
The  Grail,  or  die  for  it, — though  he  did  neither; 
For  he  came  back  as  living  and  as  fit 
For  new  and  old  iniquity  as  ever... 

yThen  Lancelot  came  back,  and  Bors  came  back, — 
Like  men  who  had  seen  more  than  men  should  s  e, 
And  still  come  back.     They  told  of  Percival 
Who  saw  too  much  to  make  of  this  worn  life 
A  long  necessity,  and  of  Galahad, 
Who  died  and  is  alive.     They  all  saw  Something. 
God  knows  the  meaning  or  the  end  of  it, 
But  they  saw  Something.    And  if  I've  an  eye, 
Small  joy  has  the  Queen  been  to  Lancelot 
Since  he  came  back  from  seeing  what  he  saw; 
For  though  his  passion  hold  him  like  hot  claws, 
He's  neither  in  the  world  nor  out  of  it. 
Gawaine  is  king,  though  Arthur  wears  the  crown; 
And  Gawaine's  hate  for  Lancelot  is  the  sword 
That  hangs  by  one  of  Merlin's  fragile  hairs 
Above  the  world.    Were  you  to  see  the  King, 
The  frenzy  that  has  overthrown  his  wisdom, 
Instead  of  him  and  his  upheaving  empire, 
Might  have  an  end." 

"I  came  to  see  the  King," 
Said  Merlin,  like  a  man  who  labors  hard 
And  long  with  an  importunate  confession. 

306 


MERLIN 

"No,  Dagonet,  you  cannot  tell  me  why, 
Although  your  tongue  is  eager  with  wild  hope 
To  tell  me  more  than  I  may  tell  myself 
About  myself.    All  this  that  was  to  be 
Might  show  to  man  how  vain  it  were  to  wreck 
The  world  for  self  if  it  were  all  in  vain. 
When  I  began  with  Arthur  I  could  see 
In  each  bewildered  man  who  dots  the  earth 
A  moment  with  his  days  a  groping  thought 
Of  an  eternal  will,  strangely  endowed 
With  merciful  illusions  whereby  self 
Becomes  the. will  itself  and  each  man  swells 

*j         I  '  ^          *•"•  —* 

In  fond  accordance  with  his  agency. 

Now  Arthur,  Modred,  Lancelot,  and  Gawaine 

Are  swollen  thoughts  of  this  eternal  will 

Which  have  no  other  way  to  find  the  way 

That  leads  them  on  to  their  inheritance 

Than  by  the  time-infuriating  flame 

Of  a  wrecked  empire,  lighted  by  the  torch 

Of  woman,  who,  together  with  the  light 

That  Galahad  found,  is  yet  to  light  the  world." 

_y 

A  wan  smile  crept  across  the  weary  face 
Of  Dagonet  the  fool :     "If  you  knew  that 
Before  your  burial  in  Broceliande, 
No  wonder  your  eternal  will  accords 
With  all  your  dreams  of  what  the  world  requires. 
My  master,  I  may  say  this  unto  you 
Because  I  am  a  fool,  and  fear  no  man; 
My  fear  is  that  I've  been  a  groping  thought 
That  never  swelled  enough.    You  say  the  torch 
Of  woman  and  the  light  that  Galahad  found 
Are  some  day  to  illuminate  the  world? 
I'll  meditate  on  that.    The  world  is  done 
For  me;  and  I  have  been,  to  make  men  laugh, 

307 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

A  lean  thing  of  no  shape  and  many  capers. 

I  made  them  laugh,  and  I  could  laugh  anon 

Myself  to  see  them  killing  one  another 

Because  a  woman  with  corn-colored  hair 

Has  pranked  a  man  with  horns.    'Twas  but  a  flash 

Of  chance,  and  Lancelot,  the  other  day 

That  saved  this  pleasing  sinner  from  the  fire 

That  she  may  spread  for  thousands.    Were  she  now 

The  cinder  the  King  willed,  or  were  you  now 

To  see  the  King,  the  fire  might  yet  go  out; 

But  the  eternal  will  says  otherwise. 

So  be  it;  I'll  assemble  certain  gold 

That  I  may  say  is  mine  and  get  myself 

Away  from  this  accurst  unhappy  court, 

And  in  some  quiet  place  where  shepherd  clowns 

And  cowherds  may  have  more  respondent  ears 

Than  kings  and  kingdom-builders,  I  shall  troll 

Old  men  to  easy  graves  and  be  a  child 

Again  among  the  children  of  the  earth. 

I'll  have  no  more  kings,  even  though  I  loved 

King  Arthur,  who  is  mad,  as  I  could  love 

No  other  man  save  Merlin,  who  is  dead." 

"Not  wholly  dead,  but  old.    Merlin  is  old." 
The  wizard  shivered  as  he  spoke,  and  stared 
Away  into  the  sunset  where  he  saw 
Once  more,  as  through  a  cracked  and  cloudy  glass, 
A  crumbling  sky  that  held  a  crimson  cloud 
Wherein  there  was  a  town  of  many  towers 
All  swayed  and  shaken,  in  a  woman's  hand 
This  time,  till  out  of  it  there  spilled  and  flashed 
And  tumbled,  like  loose  jewels,  town,  towers,  and  walls, 
And  there  was  nothing  but  a  crumbling  sky 
That  made  anon  of  black  and  red  and  ruin 
A  wild  and  final  rain  on  Camelot. 

308 


MERLIN 

He  bowed,  and  pressed  his  eyes :    "Now  by  my  soul, 
I  have  seen  this  before — all  black  and  red — 
Like  that — like  that — like  Vivian — black  and  red; 
Like  Vivian,  when  her  eyes  looked  into  mine 
Across  the  cups  of  gold.    A  flute  was  playing — 
Then  all  was  black  and  red." 

Another  smile 

Crept  over  the  wan  face  of  Dagonet, 
Who  shivered  in  his  turn.     "The  torch  of  woman," 
He  muttered,  "and  the  light  that  Galahad  found, 
Will  some  day  save  us  all,  as  they  saved  Merlin. 
Forgive  my  shivering  wits,  but  I  am  cold, 
And  it  will  soon  be  dark.    Will  you  go  down 
With  me  to  see  the  King,   or  will  you  not? 
If  not,  I  go  tomorrow  to  the  shepherds. 
The  world  is  mad,  and  I'm  a  groping  thought 
Of  your  eternal  will;  the  world  and  I 
Are  strangers,  and  I'll  have  no  more  of  it — 
Except  you  go  with  me  to  see  the  King." 

"No,  Dagonet,  you  cannot  leave  me  now," 
Said  Merlin,  sadly.     "You  and  I  are  old; 
And,  as  you  say,  we  fear  no  man.     God  knows 
I  would  not  have  the  love  that  once  you  had 
For  me  be  fear  of  me,  for  I  am  past 
All  fearing  now.    But  Fate  may  send  a  fly 
Sometimes,  and  he  may  sting  us  to  the  grave. 
So  driven  to  test  our  faith  in  what  we  see. 
Are  you,  now  I  am  coming  to  an  end, 
As  Arthur's  days  are  coming  to  an  end, 
To  sting  me  like  a  fly?    I  do  not  ask 
Of  you  to  say  that  you  see  what  I  see, 
Where  you  see  nothing;  nor  do  I  require 
Of  any  man  more  vision  than  is  his; 

309 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Yet  I  could  wish  for  you  a  larger  part 
For  your  last  entrance  here  than  this  you  play 
Tonight  of  a  sad  insect  stinging  Merlin. 
The  more  you  sting,  the  more  he  pities  you; 
And  you  were  never  overfond  of  pity. 
Had  you  been  so,  I  doubt  if  Arthur's  love, 
Or  Gawaine's,  would  have  made  of  you  a  knight. 
No,  Dagonet,  you  cannot  leave  me  now, 
Nor  would  you  if  you  could.    You  call  yourself 
A  fool,  because  the  world  and  you  are  strangers. 
You  are  a  proud  man,  Dagonet;  you  have  suffered 
What  I  alone  have  seen.    You  are  no  fool ; 
And  surely  you  are  not  a  fly  to  sting 
My  love  to  last  regret.    Believe  or  not 
What  I  have  seen,  or  what  I  say  to  you, 
But  say  no  more  to  me  that  I  am  dead 
Because  the  King  is  mad,  and  you  are  old, 
And  I  am  older.    In  Broceliande 
Time  overtook  me  as  I  knew  he  must ; 
And  I,  with  a  fond  overplus  of  words, 
Had  warned  the  lady  Vivian  already, 
Before  these  wrinkles  and  this  hesitancy 
Inhibiting  my  joints  oppressed  her  sight 
With  age  and  dissolution.     She  said  once 
That  she  was  cold  and  cruel ;  but  she  meant 
That  she  was  warm  and  kind,  and  over-wise 
For  woman  in  a  world  where  men  see  not 
Beyond  themselves.     She  saw  beyond  them  all,  / 
As  I  did ;  and  she  waited,  as  I  did, 
The  coming  of  a  day  when  cherry-blossoms 
Were  to  fall  down  all  over  me  like  snow 
In  springtime.    I  was  far  from  Camelot 
That  afternoon;  and  I  am  farther  now 
From  her.    I  see  no  more  for  me  to  do 
Than  to  leave  her  and  Arthur  and  the  world 

310 


MERLIN 

Behind  me,  and  to  pray  that  all  be  well 
With  Vivian,  whose  unquiet  heart  is  hungry 
For  what  is  not,  and  what  shall  never  be 
Without  her,  in  a  world  that  men  are  making, 
Knowing  not  how,  nor  caring  yet  to  know 
How  slowly  and  how  grievously  they  do  it, — 
Though  Vivian,  in  her  golden  shell  of  exile, 
Knows  now  and  cares,  not  knowing  that  she  cares, 
Nor  caring  that  she  knows.     In  time  to  be, 
The  like  of  her  shall  have  another  name 
Than  Vivian,  and  her  laugh  shall  be  a  fire, 
Not  shining  only  to  consume  itself 
With  what  it  burns.     She  knows  not  yet  the  name 
Of  what  she  is,  for  now  there  is  no  name; 
Some  day  there  shall  be.     Time  has  many 
Unwritten  yet,  for  what  we  say  is  old 
Because  we  are  so  young  that  it  seems  old. 
And  this  is  all  a  part  of  what  I  saw 
Before  you  saw  King  Arthur.    When  we  parted. 
I  told  her  I  should  see  the  King  again, 
And,  having  seen  him,  might  go  back  again 
To  see  her  face  once  more.    But  I  shall  see 
No  more  the  lady  Vivian.    Let  her  love 
What  man  she  may,  no  other  love  than  mine 
Shall  be  an  index  of  her  memories. 
I  fear  no  man  who  may  come  after  me, 
And  I  see  none.    I  see  her,  still  in  green, 
Beside  the  fountain.    I  shall  not  go  back. 
We  pay  for  going  back ;  and  all  we  get 
Is  one  more  needless  ounce  of  weary  wisdoi 
To  bring  away  with  us.     If  I  come  not, 
The  lady  Vivian  will  remember  me, 
And  say :   'I  knew  him  when  his  heart  was  young, 
Though  I  have  lost  him  now.    Time  called  him  home, 

311 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  that  was  as  it  was;  for  much  is  lost 
Between  Broceliande  and  Camelot.'  " 

He  stared  away  into  the  west  again, 

Where  now  no  crimson  cloud  or  phantom  town 

Deceived  his  eyes.    Above  a  living  town 

There  were  gray  clouds  and  ultimate  suspense, 

And  a  cold  wind  was  coming.    Dagonet, 

Kow  crouched  at  Merlin's  feet  in  his,  dejection, 

Saw  multiplying  lights  far  down  below, 

Where  lay  the  fevered  streets.    At  length  he  felt 

On  his  lean  shoulder  Merlin's  tragic  hand 

And  trembled,  knowing  that  a  few  more  days 

Would  see  the  last  of  Arthur  and  the  first 

Of  Modred,  whose  dark  patience  had  attained 

To  one  precarious  half  of  what  he  sought: 

"And  even  the  Queen  herself  may  fall  to  him," 

Dagonet  murmured. — "The  Queen  fall  to  Modred? 

Is  that  your  only  fear  tonight?"  said  Merlin; 

"She  may,  but  not  for  long." — "No,  not  my  fear; 

For  I  fear  nothing.    But  I  wish  no  fate 

Like  that  for  any  woman  the  King  loves, 

Although  she  be  the  scourge  and  the  end  of  him 

That  you  saw  coming,  as  I  see  it  now." 

Dagonet  shook,  but  he  would  have  no  tears, 

He  swore,  for  any  king,  queen,  knave,  or  wizard — 

Albeit  he  was  a  stranger  among  those 

Who  laughed  at  him  because  he  was  a  fool. 

"You  said  the  truth,  I  cannot  leave  you  now," 

He  stammered,  and  was  angry  for  the  tears 

That  mocked  his  will  and  choked  him. 

Merlin  smiled, 

Faintly,  and  for  the  moment:    "Dagonet, 
I  need  your  word  as  one  of  Arthur's  knights 

312 


bctn- 


MERLIN 

That  you  will  go  on  with  me  to  the  end 

Of  my  short  way,  and  say  unto  no  man 

Or  woman  that  you  found  or  saw  me  here. 

No  good  would  follow,  for  a  doubt  would  live 

Unstifled  of  my  loyalty  to  him 

Whose  deeds  are  wrought  for  those  who  are  to  come ; 

And  many  who  see  not  what  I  have  seen, 

Or  what  you  see  tonight,  would  prattle  on 

For  ever,  and  their  children  after  them, 

Of  what  might  once  have  been  had  I  gone  down 

With  you  to  Camelot  to  see  the  King. 

I  came  to  see  the  King, — but  why  see  kings  ?  ^ 

All  this  that  was  to  be  is  what  I  saw 

Before  there  was  an  Arthur  to  be  king, 

And  so  to  be  a  mirror  wherein  men 

May  see  themselves,  and  pause.    If  they  see  not, 

Or  if  they  do  see  and  they  ponder  not, — 

I  saw;  but  I  was  neither  Fate  nor  God. 

I  saw  too  much;  and  this  would  be  the  end, 

Were  there  to  be  an  end.    I  saw  myself — 

A  sight  no  other  man  has  ever  seen; 

And  through  the  dark  that  lay  beyond  myself      \   ^    \    ,  (  4 

I  saw  two  fires  that  are  to  light  the  world." 

On  Dagonet  the  silent  hand  of  Merlin 
Weighed  now  as  living  iron  that  held  him  down 
With  a  primeval  power.    Doubt,  wonderment, 
Impatience,  and  a  self-accusing  sorrow 
Born  of  an  ancient  love,  possessed  and  held  him 
Until  his  love  was  more  than  he  could  name, 
And  he  was  Merlin's  fool,  not  Arthur's  now: 
"Say  what  you  will,  I  say  that  I'm  the  fool 
Of  Merlin,  King  of  Nowhere;  which  is  Here. 
With  you  for  king  and  me  for  court,  what  else 
Have  we  to  sigh  for  but  a  place  to  sleep? 

313 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

I  know  a  tavern  that  will  take  us  in; 
And  on  the  morrow  I  shall  follow  you 
Until  I  die  for  you.    And  when  I  die  .  .  ." — 
"Well,  Dagonet,  the  King  is  listening." — 
And  Dagonet  answered,  hearing  in  the  words 
Of  Merlin  a  grave  humor  and  a  sound 
Of  graver  pity,  "I  shall  die  a  fool." 
He  heard  what  might  have  been  a  father's  laugh, 
Faintly  behind  him ;  and  the  living  weight 
Of  Merlin's  hand  was  lifted.    They  arose, 
And,  saying  nothing,  found  a  groping  way 
Down  through  the  gloom  together.    Fiercer  now, 
The  wind  was  like  a  flying  animal 
That  beat  the  two  of  them  incessantly 
With  icy  wings,  and  bit  them  as  they  went. 
The  rock  above  them  was  an  empty  place 
Where  neither  seer  nor  fool  should  view  again 
The  stricken  city.    Colder  blew  the  wind 
Across  the  world,  and  on  it  heavier  lay 
The  shadow  and  the  burden  of  the  night; 
And  there  was  darkness  over  Camelot. 

\ 


314 


THE  TOWN  DOWN  THE  RIVER 

(1910) 
To  Theodore  Roosevelt 


THE  MASTER* 

(LINCOLN) 

A  FLYING  word  from  here  and  there 
Had  sown  the  name  at  which  we  sneered, 
But  soon  the  name  was  everywhere, 
To  be  reviled  and  then  revered : 
A  presence  to  be  loved  and  feared, 
We  cannot  hide  it,  or  deny 
That  we,  the  gentlemen  who  jeered, 
May  be  forgotten  by  and  by. 

He  came  when  days  were  perilous 
And  hearts  of  men  were  sore  beguiled; 
And  having  made  his  note  of  us, 
He  pondered  and  was  reconciled. 
Was  ever  master  yet  so  mild 
As  he,  and  so  untamable? 
We  doubted,  even  when  he  smiled, 
Not  knowing  what  he  knew  so  well. 

He  knew  that  undeceiving  fate 
Would  shame  us  whom  he  served  unsought; 
He  knew  that  he  must  wince  and  wait — 
The  jest  of  those  for  whom  he  fought; 

Supposed  to  have  been  written  not  long  after  the  Civil  War. 

317 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  knew  devoutly  what  he  thought 
Of  us  and  of  our  ridicule; 
He  knew  that  we  must  all  be  taught 
Like  little  children  in  a  school. 

We  gave  a  glamour  to  the  task 

That  he  encountered  and  saw  through, 

But  little  of  us  did  he  ask, 

And  little  did  we  ever  do. 

And  what  appears  if  we  review 

The  season  when  we  railed  and  chaffed  ? 

It  is  the  face  of  one  who  knew 

That  we  were  learning  while  we  laughed. 

The  face  that  in  our  vision  feels 
Again  the  venom  that  we  flung, 
Transfigured  to  the  world  reveals 
The  vigilance  to  which  we  clung. 
Shrewd,  hallowed,  harassed,  and  among 
The  mysteries  that  are  untold, 
The  face  we  see  was  never  young 
Nor  could  it  wholly  have  been  old. 

For  he,  to  whom  we  had  applied 
Our  shopman's  test  of  age  and  worth, 
Was  elemental  when  he  died, 
As  he  was  ancient  at  his  birth : 
The  saddest  among  kings  of  earth, 
Bowed  with  a  galling  crown,  this  man 
Met  rancor  with  a  cryptic  mirth, 
Laconic — and  Olympian. 

The  love,  the  grandeur,  and  the  fame 
Are  bounded  by  the  world  alone; 
318 


THE  TOWN  DOWN  THE  RIVER 

The  calm,  the  smouldering,  and  the  flame 
Of  awful  patience  were  his  own : 
With  him  they  are  forever  flown 
Past  all  our  fond  self-shadowings, 
Wherewith  we  cumber  the  Unknown 
As  with  inept,  Icarian  wings. 

For  we  were  not  as  other  men: 
'Twas  ours  to  soar  and  his  to  see; 
But  we  are  coming  down  again, 
And  we  shall  come  down  pleasantly; 
Nor  shall  we  longer  disagree 
On  what  it  is  to  be  sublime, 
But  flourish  in  our  perigee 
And  have  one  Titan  at  a  time. 


THE  TOWN  DOWN  THE  RIVER 


SAID  the  Watcher  by  the  Way 
To  the  young  and  the  unladen, 
To  the  boy  and  to  the  maiden, 
"God  be  with  you  both  to-day. 
First  your  song  came  ringing, 
Now  you  come,  you  two, — 
Knowing  naught  of  what  you  do, 
Or  of  what  your  dreams  are  bringing. 

"O  you  children  who  go  singing 
To  the  Town  down  the  River, 
Where  the  millions  cringe  and  shiver, 
Tell  me  what  you  know  to-day; 
Tell  me  how  far  you  are  going, 
319 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Tell  me  how  you  find  your  way. 
O  you  children  who  go  dreaming, 
Tell  me  what  you  dream  to-day." 

'Tie  is  old  and  we  have  heard  him," 
Said  the  boy  then  to  the  maiden; 
"He  is  old  and  heavy  laden 
With  a  load  we  throw  away. 
Care  may  come  to  find  us, 
Age  may  lay  us  low; 
Still,  we  seek  the  light  we  know, 
And  the  dead  we  leave  behind  us. 

"Did  he  think  that  he  would  blind  us 
Into  such  a  small  believing 
As  to  live  without  achieving, 
When  the  lights  have  led  so  far? 
Let  him  watch  or  let  him  wither, — 
Shall  he  tell  us  where  we  are? 
We  know  best  who  go  together, 
Downward,  onward,  and  so  far." 

n 

SAID  the  Watcher  by  the  Way 
To  the  fiery  folk  that  hastened, 
To  the  loud  and  the  unchastened, 
"You  are  strong,  I  see,  to-day. 
Strength  and  hope  may  lead  you 
To  the  journey's  end, — 
Each  to  be  the  other's  friend 
If  the  Town  should  fail  to  need  you. 

"And  are  ravens  there  to  feed  you 
In  the  Town  down  the  River, 
320 


THE  TOWN  DOWN  THE  RIVER 

Where  the  gift  appalls  the  giver 
And  youth  hardens  day  by  day? 
O  you  brave  and  you  unshaken, 
Are  you  truly  on  your  way  ? 
And  are  sirens  in  the  Kiver, 
That  you  come  so  far  to-day?" 

"You  are  old,  and  we  have  listened," 
Said  the  voice  of  one  who  halted; 
"You  are  sage  and  self-exalted, 
But  your  way  is  not  our  way. 
You  that  cannot  aid  us 
Give  us  words  to  eat. 
Be  assured  that  they  are  sweet, 
And  that  we  are  as  God  made  us. 

"Not  in  vain  have  you  delayed  us, 
Though  the  Eiver  still  be  calling 
Through  the  twilight  that  is  falling 
And  the  Town  be  still  so  far. 
By  the  whirlwind  of  your  wisdom 
Leagues  are  lifted  as  leaves  are; 
But  a  king  without  a  kingdom 
Fails  us,  who  have  come  so  far." 

Ill 

SAID  the  Watcher  by  the  Way 
To  the  slower  folk  who  stumbled, 
To  the  weak  and  the  world-humbled, 
"Tell  me  how  you  fare  to-day. 
Some  with  ardor  shaken, 
All  with  honor  scarred, 
Do  you  falter,  finding  hard 
The  far  chance  that  you  have  taken? 
321 


"Or,  do  you  at  length  awaken 
To  an  antic  retribution, 
Goading  to  a  new  confusion 
The  drugged  hopes  of  yesterday  ? 
0  you  poor  mad  men  that  hobble, 
Will  you  not  return,  or  stay? 
Do  you  trust,  you  broken  people, 
To  a  dawn  without  the  day?" 

<<You  speak  well  of  what  you  know  not," 

Muttered  one ;  and  then  a  second : 

"You  have  begged  and  you  have  beckoned, 

But  you  see  us  on  our  way. 

Who  are  you  to  scold  us, 

Knowing  what  we  know  ? 

Jeremiah,  long  ago, 

Said  as  much  as  you  have  told  us. 

"As  we  are,  then,  you  behold  us : 
Derelicts  of  all  conditions, 
Poets,  rogues,  and  sick  physicians, 
Plodding  forward  from  afar; 
Forward  now  into  the  darkness 
Where  the  men  before  us  are ; 
Forward,  onward,  out  of  grayness, 
To  the  light  that  shone  so  far." 

IV 

Said  the  Watcher  by  the  Way 
To  some  aged  ones  who  lingered, 
To  the  shrunken,  the  claw-fingered, 
"So  you  come  for  me  to-day." — 
"Yes,  to  give  you  warning; 
You  are  old,"  one  said; 
322 


AN  ISLAND 

"You  have  old  hairs  on  your  head, 
Fit  for  laurel,  not  for  scorning. 

"From  the  first  of  early  morning 
We  have  toiled  along  to  find  you; 
We,  as  others,  have  maligned  you, 
But  we  need  your  scorn  to-day. 
By  the  light  that  we  saw  shining, 
Let  us  not  be  lured  alway; 
Let  us  hear  no  River  calling 
When  to-morrow  is  to-day." 

"But  your  lanterns  are  unlighted 
And  the  Town  is  far  before  you : 
Let  us  hasten,  I  implore  you," 
Said  the  Watcher  by  the  Way. 
"Long  have  I  waited, 
Longer  have  I  known 
That  the  Town  would  have  its  own, 
And  the  call  be  for  the  fated. 

"In  the  name  of  all  created, 
Let  us  hear  no  more,  my  brothers ; 
Are  we  older  than  all  others? 
Are  the  planets  in  our  way  ?" — 
"Hark,"  said  one ;  "I  hear  the  River, 
Calling  always,  night  and  day." — 
"Forward,  then!    The  lights  are  shining," 
Said  the  Watcher  by  the  Way. 


AN  ISLAND 
(SAINT  HELENA,  1821) 

TAKE  it  away,  and  swallow  it  yourself. 
Ha !    Look  you,  there's  a  rat. 
323 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Last  night  there  were  a  dozen  on  that  shelf, 

And  two  of  them  were  living  in  my  hat. 

Look!    Now  he  goes,  but  he'll  come  back — 

Ha?    But  he  will,  I  say  .  .  . 

II  reviendra-z-d  Paques, 

Ou  a  la,  Trinite  .  .  . 

Be  very  sure  that  he'll  return  again; 

For  said  the  Lord :  Imprimis,  we  have  rats, 

And  having  rats,  we  have  rain. — 

So  on  the  seventh  day 

He  rested,  and  made  Pain. 

— Man,  if  you  love  the  Lord,  afid  if  the  Lord 

Love  liars,  I  will  have  you  at  your  word 

And  swallow  it.    Voild.    Bah! 

Where  do  I  say  it  is 

That  I  have  lain  so  long? 

Where  do  I  count  myself  among  the  dead, 

As  once  above  the  living  and  the  strong? 

And  what  is  this  that  comes  and  goes, 

Fades  and  swells  and  overflows, 

Like  music  underneath  and  overhead? 

What  is  it  in  me  now  that  rings  and  roars 

Like  fever-laden  wine? 

What  ruinous  tavern-shine 

Is  this  that  lights  me  far  from  worlds  and  wars 

And  women  that  were  mine? 

Where  do  I  say  it  is 

That  Time  has  made  my  bed  ? 

What  lowering  outland  hostelry  is  this 

For  one  the  stars  have  disinherited  ? 

An  island,  I  have  said: 
A  peak,  where  fiery  dreams  and  far  desires 
Are  rained  on,  like  old  fires: 
324 


AN  ISLAND 

A  vermin  region  by  the/ stars  abhorred, 

Where  falls  the  flaming  word 

By  which  I  consecrate  with  unsuccess 

An  acreage  of  God's  forgetfulness, 

Left  here  above  the  foam  and  long  ago 

Made  right  for  my  duress; 

Where  soon  the  sea, 

My  foaming  and  long-clamoring  enemy, 

Will  have  within  the  cryptic,  old  embrace 

Of  her  triumphant  arms — a  memory. 

Why  then,  the  place? 

What  forage  of  the  sky  or  of  the  shore 

Will  make  it  any  more, 

To  me,  than  my  award  of  what  was  left 

Of  number,  time,  and  space  ? 

And  what  is  on  me  now  that  I  should  heed 

The  durance  or  the  silence  or  the  scorn? 

I  was  the  gardener  who  had  the  seed 

Which  holds  within  its  heart  the  food  and  fire 

That  gives  to  man  a  glimpse  of  his  desire; 

And  I  have  tilled,  indeed, 

Much  land,  where  men  may  say  that  I  have  planted 

Unsparingly  my  corn — 

For  a  world  harvest-haunted 

And  for  a  world  unborn. 

Meanwhile,  am  I  to  view,  as  at  a  play, 
Through  smoke  the  funeral  flames  of  yesterday, 
And  think  them  far  away? 
Am  I  to  doubt  and  yet  be  given  to  know 
That  where  my  demon  guides  me,  there  I  go  ? — 
An  island?    Be  it  so. 
For  islands,  after  all  is  said  and  done, 
Tell  but  a  wilder  game  that  was  begun, 
325 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

When  Fate,  the  mistress  of  iniquities, 

The  mad  Queen-spinner  of  all  discrepancies, 

Beguiled  the  dyers  of  the  dawn  that  day, 

And  even  in  such  a  curst  and  sodden  way 

Made  my  three  colors  one. 

— So  be  it,  and  the  way  be  as  of  old : 

So  be  the  weary  truth  again  retold 

Of  great  kings  overthrown 

Because  they  would  be  kings,  and  lastly  kings  alone. 

Fling  to  each  dog  his  bone. 

Flags  that  are  vanished,  flags  that  are  soiled  and  furled, 

Say  what  will  be  the  word  when  I  am  gone : 

What  learned  little  acrid  archive  men 

Will  burrow  to  find  me  out  and  burrow  again, — 

But  all  for  naught,  unless 

To  find  there  was  another  Island.  .  .  .  Yes, 

There  are  too  many  islands  in  this  world, 

There  are  too  many  rats,  and  there  is  too  much  rain. 

50  three  things  are  made  plain 
Between  the  sea  and  sky: 

Three  separate  parts  of  one  thing,  which  is  Pain  .  .  . 

Bah,  what  a  way  to  die! — 

To  leave  my  Queen  still  spinning  there  on  high, 

Still  wondering,  I  dare  say, 

To  see  me  in  this  way  .  .  . 

Madame  a  sa  tour  monte 

51  haut  qu'elle  pent  monter — 

Like  one  of  our  Commissioners  .  .  .  ai!  ai! 
Prometheus  and  the  women  have  to  cry, 
But  no,  not  I  ... 
Faugh,  what  a  way  to  die! 

But  who  are  these  that  come  and  go 
Before  me,  shaking  laurel  as  they  pass? 


AN  ISLAND 

Laurel,  to  make  me  know 

For  certain  what  they  mean : 

That  now  my  Fate,  my  Queen, 

Having  found  that  she,  by  way  of  right  reward, 

Will  after  madness  go  remembering, 

And  laurel  be  as  grass, — 

Remembers  the  one  thing 

That  she  has  left  to  bring. 

The  floor  about  me  now  is  like  a  sward 

Grown  royally.    Now  it  is  like  a  sea 

That  heaves  with  laurel  heavily, 

Surrendering  an  outworn  enmity 

For  what  has  come  to  be. 

But  not  for  you,  returning  with  your  curled 
And  haggish  lips.    And  why  are  you  alone  ? 
Why  do  you  stay  when  all  the  rest  are  gone  ? 
Why  do  you  bring  those  treacherous  eyes  that  reek 
With  venom  and  hate  the  while  you  seek 
To  make  me  understand  ? — 
Laurel  from  every  land, 
Laurel,  but  not  the  world? 

Fury,  or  perjured  Fate,  or  whatsoever, 
Tell  me  the  bloodshot  word  that  is  your  name 
And  I  will  pledge  remembrance  of  the  same 
That  shall  be  crossed  out  never; 
Whereby  posterity 

May  know,  being  told,  that  you  have  come  to  me, 
You  and  your  tongueless  train  without  a  sound, 
With  covetous  hands  and  eyes  and  laurel  all  around, 
Foreshowing  your  endeavor 
To  mirror  me  the  demon  of  my  days, 
To  make  me  doubt  him,  loathe  him,  face  to  face. 
Bowed  with  unwilling  glory  from  the  quest 
327 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  was  ordained  and  manifest, 

You  shake  it  off  and  wish  me  joy  of  it? 

Laurel  from  every  place, 

Laurel,  but  not  the  rest? 

Such  are  the  words  in  you  that  I  divine, 

Such  are  the  words  of  men. 

So  be  it,  and  what  then? 

Poor,  tottering  counterfeit, 

Are  you  a  thing  to  tell  me  what  is  mine? 

Grant  we  the  demon  sees 

An  inch  beyond  the  line, 

What  comes  of  mine  and  thine? 

A  thousand  here  and  there  may  shriek  and  freeze, 

Or  they  may  starve  in  fine. 

The  Old  Physician  has  a  crimson  cure 

For  such  as  these, 

And  ages  after  ages  will  endure 

The  minims  of  it  that  are  victories. 

The  wreath  may  go  from  brow  to  brow, 

The  state  may  flourish,  flame,  and  cease; 

But  through  the  fury  and  the  flood  somehow 

The  demons  are  acquainted  and  at  ease, 

And  somewhat  hard  to  please. 

Mine,  I  believe,  is  laughing  at  me  now 

In  his  primordial  way, 

Quite  as  he  laughed  of  old  at  Hannibal, 

Or  rather  at  Alexander,  let  us  say. 

Therefore,  be  what  you  may, 

Time  has  no  further  need 

Of  you,  or  of  your  breed. 

My  demon,  irretrievably  astray, 

Has  ruined  the  last  chorus  of  a  play 

That  will,  so  he  avers,  be  played  again  some  day; 

And  you,  poor  glowering  ghost, 

328 


AN  ISLAND 

Have  staggered  under  laurel  here  to  boast 

Above  me,  dying,  while  you  lean 

In  triumph  awkward  and  unclean, 

About  some  words  of  his  that  you  have  read? 

Thing,  do  I  not  know  them  all? 

He  tells  me  how  the  storied  leaves  that  fall 

Are  tramped  on,  being  dead? 

They  are  sometimes :  with  a  storm  foul  enough 

They  are  seized  alive  and  they  are  blown  far  off 

To  mould  on  islands. — What  else  have  you  read? 

He  tells  me  that  great  kings  look  very  small 

When  they  are  put  to  bed; 

And  this  being  said, 

He  tells  me  that  the  battles  I  have  won 

Are  not  my  own, 

But  his — howbeit  fame  will  yet  atone 

For  all  defect,  and  sheave  the  mystery : 

The  follies  and  the  slaughters  I  have  done 

Are  mine  alone, 

And  so  far  History. 

So  be  the  tale  again  retold 

And  leaf  by  clinging  leaf  unrolled 

Where  I  have  written  in  the  dawn, 

With  ink  that  fades  anon, 

Like  Ca3sar's,  and  the  way  be  as  of  old. 

Ho,  is  it  you?    I  thought  you  were  a  ghost. 
Is  it  time  for  you  to  poison  me  again? 
Well,  here's  our  friend  the  rain, — 
Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  .  .  . 
Man,  I  could  murder  you  almost, 
You  with  your  pills  and  toast. 
Take  it  away  and  eat  it,  and  shoot  rats. 
Ha !  there  he  comes.    Your  rat  will  never  fail, 
My  punctual  assassin,  to  prevail — 
329 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

While  he  has  power  to  crawl, 

Or  teeth  to  gnaw  withal — 

Where  kings  are  caged.    Why  has  a  king  no  cats  ? 

You  say  that  I'll  achieve  it  if  I  try  ? 

Swallow  it? — No,  not  I  ... 

God,  what  a  way  to  die! 


CALVE  ELY'S 

WE  go  no  more  to  Calverly's, 
For  there  the  lights  are  few  and  low; 
And  who  are  there  to  see  by  them, 
Or  what  they  see,  we  do  not  know. 
Poor  strangers  of  another  tongue 
May  now  creep  in  from  anywhere, 
And  we,  forgotten,  be  no  more 
Than  twilight  on  a  ruin  there. 

We  two,  the  remnant.    All  the  rest 

Are  cold  and  quiet.    You  nor  I, 

Nor  fiddle  now,  nor  flagon-lid, 

May  ring  them  back  from  where  they  lie. 

No  fame  delays  oblivion 

For  them,  but  something  yet  survives: 

A  record  written  fair,  could  we 

But  read  the  book  of  scattered  lives. 

There'll  be  a  page  for  Leffingwell, 
And  one  for  Lingard,  the  Moon-calf; 
And  who  knows  what  for  Clavering, 
Who  died  because  he  couldn't  laugh  ? 
Who  knows  or  cares?    No  sign  is  here, 
No  face,  no  voice,  no  memory; 


LEFFINGWELL 

No  Lingard  with  his  eerie  joy, 
No  Clavering,  no  Calverly. 

We  cannot  have  them  here  with  us 
To  say  where  their  light  lives  are  gone, 
Or  if  they  be  of  other  stuff 
Than  are  the  moons  of  Ilion. 
So,  be  their  place  of  one  estate 
With  ashes,  echoes,  and  old  wars, — 
Or  ever  we  be  of  the  night, 
Or  we  be  lost  among  the  stars. 


LEFFINGWELL 

I — THE  LURE 

No,  no, — forget  your  Cricket  and  your  Ant, 
For  I  shall  never  set  my  name  to  theirs 
That  now  bespeak  the  very  sons  and  heirs 
Incarnate  of  Queen  Gossip  and  King  Cant. 
The  case  of  Leffingwell  is  mixed,  I  grant, 
And  futile  seems  the  burden  that  he  bears; 
But  are  we  sounding  his  forlorn  affairs 
Who  brand  him  parasite  and  sycophant  ? 

I  tell  you,  Leffingwell  was  more  than  these; 

And  if  he  prove  a  rather  sorry  knight, 

What  quiverings  in  the  distance  of  what  light 

May  not  have  lured  him  with  high  promises, 

And  then  gone  down  ? — He  may  have  been  deceived ; 

He  may  have  lied, — he  did ;  and  he  believed. 

II — THE  QUICKSTEP 

THE  dirge  is  over,  the  good  work  is  done, 
All  as  he  would  have  had  it,  and  we  go ; 
331 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  we  who  leave  him  say  we  do  not  know 
How  much  is  ended  or  how  much  begun. 
So  men  have  said  before  of  many  a  one; 
So  men  may  say  of  us  when  Time  shall  throw 
Such  earth  as  may  be  needful  to  bestow 
On  you  and  me  the  covering  hush  we  shun. 

Well  hated,  better  loved,  he  played  and  lost, 

And  left  us ;  and  we  smile  at  his  arrears ; 

And  who  are  we  to  know  what  it  all  cost, 

Or  what  we  may  have  wrung  from  him,  the  buyer  ? 

The  pageant  of  his  failure-laden  years 

Told  ruin  of  high  price.    The  place  was  higher. 

Ill — KEQUIESCAT 

WE  never  knew  the  sorrow  or  the  pain 
Within  him,  for  he  seemed  as  one  asleep — 
Until  he  faced  us  with  a  dying  leap, 
And  with  a  blast  of  paramount,  profane, 
And  vehement  valediction  did  explain 
To  each  of  us,  in  words  that  we  shall  keep, 
Why  we  were  not  to  wonder  or  to  weep, 
Or  ever  dare  to  wish  him  back  again. 

He  may  be  now  an  amiable  shade, 
With  merry  fellow-phantoms  unafraid 
Around  him — but  we  do  not  ask.    We  know 
That  he  would  rise  and  haunt  us  horribly, 
And  be  with  us  o'  nights  of  a  certainty. 
Did  we  not  hear  him  when  he  told  us  so  ? 


CLAVERING 

CLAVERING 

I  SAY  no  more  for  Clavering 

Than  I  should  say  of  him  who  fails 

To  bring  his  wounded  vessel  home 
When  reft  of  rudder  and  of  sails ; 

I  say  no  more  than  I  should  say 

Of  any  other  one  who  sees 
Too  far  for  guidance  of  to-day, 

Too  near  for  the  eternities. 

I  think  of  him  as  I  should  think 
Of  one  who  for  scant  wages  played, 

And  faintly,  a  flawed  instrument 
That  fell  while  it  was  being  made; 

I  think  of  him  as  one  who  fared, 

Unfaltering  and  undeceived, 
Amid  mirages  of  renown 

And  urgings  of  the  unachieved; 

I  think  of  him  as  one  who  gave 
To  Lingard  leave  to  be  amused, 

And  listened  with  a  patient  grace 
That  we,  the  wise  ones,  had  refused; 

I  think  of  metres  that  he  wrote 
For  Cubit,  the  ophidian  guest: 

"What  Lilith,  or  Dark  Lady"  .  .  .  Well, 
Time  swallows  Cubit  with  the  rest. 

I  think  of  last  words  that  he  said 
One  midnight  over  Calverly : 

"Good-by — good  man."    He  was  not  good; 
So  Clavering  was  wrong,  you  see. 
333 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

I  wonder  what  had  come  to  pass 
Could  he  have  borrowed  for  a  spell 

The  fiery-frantic  indolence 

That  made  a  ghost  of  Leffingwell; 

I  wonder  if  he  pitied  us 

Who  cautioned  him  till  he  was  gray 
To  build  his  house  with  ours  on  earth 

And  have  an  end  of  yesterday ; 

I  wonder  what  it  was  we  saw 

To  make  us  think  that  we  were  strong; 
I  wonder  if  he  saw  too  much, 

Or  if  he  looked  one  way  too  long. 

But  when  were  thoughts  or  wonderings 
To  ferret  out  the  man  within  ? 

Why  prate  of  what  he  seemed  to  be, 
And  all  that  he  might  not  have  been? 

He  clung  to  phantoms  and  to  friends, 
And  never  came  to  anything. 

He  left  a  wreath  on  Cubit's  grave. 
I  say  no  more  for  Clavering. 


LINGARD  AND  THE  STARS 

THE  table  hurled  itself,  to  our  surprise, 
At  Lingard,  and  anon  rapped  eagerly : 
"When  earth  is  cold  and  there  is  no  more  sea, 
There  will  be  what  was  Lingard.     Otherwise, 
Why  lure  the  race  to  ruin  through  the  skies  ? 
And  why  have  Leffingwell,  or  Calverly?" — 
334 


PASA  THALASSA  THALASSA 

<(I  wish  the  ghost  would  give  his  name,"  said  he; 
And  searching  gratitude  was  in  his  eyes. 

He  stood  then  by  the  window  for  a  time, 
And  only  after  the  last  midnight  chime 
Smote  the  day  dead  did  he  say  anything : 
"Come  out,  my  little  one,  the  stars  are  bright; 
Come  out,  you  laelaps,  and  inhale  the  night." 
And  so  he  went  away  with  Clavering. 


PASA  THALASSA  THALASSA 

"The  sea  is  everywhere  the  sea." 

I 

GONE — faded  out  of  the  story,  the  sea-faring  friend  I  remember  ? 
Gone  for  a  decade,  they  say :  never  a  word  or  a  sign. 
Gone  with  his  hard  red  face  that  only  his  laughter  could  wrinkle, 
Down  where  men  go  to  be  still,  by  the  old  way  of  the  sea. 

Never  again  will  he  come,  with  rings  in  his  ears  like  a  pirate, 
Back  to  be  living  and  seen,  here  with  his  roses  and  vines; 
Here  where  the  tenants  are  shadows  and  echoes  of  years  un 
eventful, 
Memory  meets  the  event,  told  from  afar  by  the  sea. 

Smoke  that  floated  and  rolled  in  the  twilight  away  from  the 

chimney 

Floats  and  rolls  no  more.    Wheeling  and  falling,  instead, 
Down  with  a  twittering  flash  go  the  smooth  and  inscrutable 

swallows, 
Down  to  the  place  made  theirs  by  the  cold  work  of  the  sea. 

Roses  have  had  their  day,  and  the  dusk  is  on  yarrow  and  worm 
wood — 

Dusk  that  is  over  the  grass,  drenched  with  memorial  dew; 

335 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Trellises  lie  like  bones  in  a  ruin  that  once  was  a  garden, 
Swallows  have  lingered  and  ceased,  shadows  and  echoes  are  all. 

II 

WHERE  is  he  lying  to-night,  as  I  turn  away  down  to  the  valley, 
Down  where  the  lamps  of  men  tell  me  the  streets  are  alive  ? 
Where  shall  I  ask,  and  of  whom,  in  the  town  or  on  land  or  on 

water, 
News  of  a  time  and  a  place  buried  alike  and  with  him? 

Few  now  remain  who  may  care,  nor  may  they  be  wiser  for 

caring, 

Where  or  what  manner  the  doom,  whether  by  day  or  by  night; 
Whether  in  Indian  deeps  or  on  flood-laden  fields  of  Atlantis, 
Or  by  the  roaring  Horn,  shrouded  in  silence  he  lies. 

Few  now  remain  who  return  by  the  weed-weary  path  to  his 

cottage, 

Drawn  by  the  scene  as  it  was — met  by  the  chill  and  the  change ; 
Few  are  alive  who  report,  and  few  are  alive  who  remember, 
More  of  him  now  than  a  name  carved  somewhere  on  the  sea. 

"Where  is  he  lying?"  I  ask,  and  the  lights  in  the  valley  are 

nearer ; 

Down  to  the  streets  I  go,  down  to  the  murmur  of  men. 
Down  to  the  roar  of  the  sea  in  a  ship  may  be  well  for  another — 
Down  where  he  lies  to-night,  silent,  and  under  the  storms. 


MOMUS 

"WHERE'S  the  need  of  singing  now?" — 
Smooth  your  brow, 
Momus,  and  be  reconciled, 
For  King  Kronos  is  a  child — 
336 


UNCLE  ANANIAS 

Child  and  father, 

Or  god  rather, 

And  all  gods  are  wild. 

"Who  reads  Byron  any  more?" — 

Shut  the  door, 

Momus,  for  I  feel  a  draught; 

Shut  it  quick,  for  some  one  laughed. 

"What's  become  of 

Browning?    Some  of 

Wordsworth  lumbers  like  a  raft? 

"What  are  poets  to  find  here?" — 

Have  no  fear: 

When  the  stars  are  shining  blue 

There  will  yet  be  left  a  few 

Themes  availing — 

And  these  failing, 

Momus,  there'll  be  you. 


UNCLE  ANANIAS 

His  words  were  magic  and  his  heart  was  true, 
And  everywhere  he  wandered  he  was  blessed. 

Out  of  all  ancient  men  my  childhood  knew 
I  choose  him  and  I  mark  him  for  the  best. 

Of  all  authoritative  liars,  too, 
I  crown  him  loveliest. 

How  fondly  I  remember  the  delight 

That  always  glorified  him  in  the  spring; 

The  joyous  courage  and  the  benedight 
Profusion  of  his  faith  in  everything! 

337 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  was  a  good  old  man,  and  it  was  right 
That  he  should  have  his  fling. 

And  often,  underneath  the  apple-trees, 

When  we  surprised  him  in  the  summer  time, 

With  what  superb  magnificence  and  ease 
He  sinned  enough  to  make  the  day  sublime ! 

And  if  he  liked  us  there  about  his  knees, 
Truly  it  was  no  crime. 

All  summer  long  we  loved  him  for  the  same 

Perennial  inspiration  of  his  lies; 
And  when  the  russet  wealth  of  autumn  came, 

There  flew  but  fairer  visions  to  our  eyes — 
Multiple,  tropical,  winged  with  a  feathery  flame, 

Like  birds  of  paradise. 

So  to  the  sheltered  end  of  many  a  year 
He  charmed  the  seasons  out  with  pageantry 

Wearing  upon  his  forehead,  with  no  fear, 
The  laurel  of  approved  iniquity. 

And  every  child  who  knew  him,  far  or  near, 
Did  love  him  faithfully. 


THE  WHIP 

THE  doubt  you  fought  so  long 
The  cynic  net  you  cast, 
The  tyranny,  the  wrong, 
The  ruin,  they  are  past; 
And  here  you  are  at  last, 
Your  blood  no  longer  vexed. 
The  cofim  has  you  fast, 
The  clod  will  have  you  next. 
338 


THE  WHIP 

But  fear  you  not  the  clod, 
Nor  ever  doubt  the  grave: 
The  roses  and  the  sod 
Will  not  forswear  the  wave. 
The  gift  the  river  gave 
Is  now  but  theirs  to  cover: 
The  mistress  and  the  slave 
Are  gone  now,  and  the  lover. 

You  left  the  two  to  find 
Their  own  way  to  the  brink 
Then— shall  I  call  you  blind?— 
You  chose  to  plunge  and  sink. 
God  knows  the  gall  we  drink 
Is  not  the  mead  we  cry  for, 
Nor  was  it,  I  should  think — 
For  you — a  thing  to  die  for. 

Could  we  have  done  the  same, 
Had  we  been  in  your  place  ? — 
This  funeral  of  your  name 
Throws  no  light  on  the  case. 
Could  we  have  made  the  chase, 
And  felt  then  as  you  felt? — 
But  what's  this  on  your  face, 
Blue,  curious,  like  a  welt? 

There  were  some  ropes  of  sand 
Recorded  long  ago, 
But  none,  I  understand, 
Of  water.    Is  it  so? 
And  she — she  struck  the  blow, 
You  but  a  neck  behind.  .  . 
You  saw  the  river  flow — 
Still,  shall  I  call  you  blind? 

339 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

THE  WHITE  LIGHTS 

(BROADWAY,  1906) 

WHEN  in  from  Delos  came  the  gold 
That  held  the  dream  of  Pericles, 
When  first  Athenian  ears  were  told 
The  tumult  of  Euripides, 
When  men  met  Aristophanes, 
Who  fledged  them  with  immortal  quills — 
Here,  where  the  time  knew  none  of  these, 
There  were  some  islands  and  some  hills. 

When  Eome  went  ravening  to  see 
The  sons  of  mothers  end  their  days, 
When  Flaccus  bade  Leuconoe 
To  hanish  her  Chaldean  ways, 
When  first  the  pearled,  alembic  phrase 
Of  Maro  into  music  ran — 
Here  there  was  neither  blame  nor  praise 
For  Rome,  or  for  the  Mantuan. 

When  Avon,  like  a  faery  floor, 
Lay  freighted,  for  the  eyes  of  One, 
With  gal!  eons  laden  long  before 
By  moonlit  wharves  in  Avalon — 
Here,  where  the  white  lights  have  begun 
To  seethe  a  way  for  something  fair, 
No  prophet  knew,  from  what  was  done, 
That  there  was  triumph  in  the  air. 

EXIT 

FOR  what  we  owe  to  other  days, 
Before  we  poisoned  him  with  praise, 
340 


THE  WISE  BROTHERS 

May  we  who  shrank  to  find  him  weak 
Remember  that  he  cannot  speak. 

For  envy  that  we  may  recall, 
And  for  our  faith  before  the  fall, 
May  we  who  are  alive  be  slow 
To  tell  what  we  shall  never  know. 

For  penance  he  would  not  confess, 
And  for  the  fateful  emptiness 
Of  early  triumph  undermined, 
May  we  now  venture  to  be  kind. 

LEONORA 

THEY  have  made  for  Leonora  this  low  dwelling  in  the  ground, 
And  with  cedar  they  have  woven  the  four  walls  round. 
Like  a  little  dryad  hiding  she'll  be  wrapped  all  in  green, 
Better  kept  and  longer  valued  than  by  ways  that  would  have 
been. 

They  will  come  with  many  roses  in  the  early  afternoon, 
They  will  come  with  pinks  and  lilies  and  with  Leonora  soon ; 
And  as  long  as  beauty's  garments  over  beauty's  limbs  are  thrown, 
There'll  be  lilies  that  are  liars,  and  the  rose  will  have  its  own. 

There  will  be  a  wondrous  quiet  in  the  house  that  they  have  made, 
And  to-night  will  be  a  darkness  in  the  place  where  she'll  be  laid ; 
But  the  builders,  looking  forward  into  time,  could  only  see 
Darker  nights  for  Leonora  than  to-night  shall  ever  be. 

THE  WISE  BROTHERS 

FIRST  VOICE 

So  long  adrift,  so  fast  aground, 
What  foam  and  ruin  have  we  found — 
341 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

We,  the  Wise  Brothers? 
Could  heaven  and  earth  be  framed  amiss, 
That  we  should  land  in  fine  like  this — 

We,  and  no  others? 

SECOND  VOICE 

Convoyed  by  what  accursed  thing 
Made  we  this  evil  reckoning — 

We,  the  Wise  Brothers  ? 
And  if  the  failure  be  complete, 
Why  look  we  forward  from  defeat — 

We,  and  what  others? 

THIRD  VOICE 

Blown  far  from  harbors  once  in  sight, 
May  we  not,  going  far,  go  right, — 

We,  the  Wise  Brothers  ? 
Companioned  by  the  whirling  spheres, 
Have  we  no  more  than  what  appears — 

We,  and  all  others? 


BUT  FOR  THE  GRACE  OF  GOD 

"There,  ~but  for  the  grace  of  God,  goes  ..." 

THERE  is  a  question  that  I  ask, 

And  ask  again : 
What  hunger  was  half -hidden  by  the  mask 

That  he  wore  then? 

There  was  a  word  for  me  to  say 

That  I  said  not; 
And  in  the  past  there  was  another  day 

That  I  forgot: 
342 


BUT  FOR  THE  GRACE  OF  GOD 

A  dreary,  cold,  unwholesome  day, 

Racked  overhead, — 
As  if  the  world  were  turning  the  wrong  way, 

And  the  sun  dead: 

A  day  that  comes  back  well  enough 

Now  he  is  gone. 
What  then  ?    Has  memory  no  other  stuff 

To  seize  upon? 

Wherever  he  may  wander  now 

In  his  despair, 
Would  he  be  more  contented  in  the  slough 

If  all  were  there? 

And  yet  he  brought  a  kind  of  light 

Into  the  room; 
And  when  he  left,  a  tinge  of  something  bright 

Survived  the  gloom. 

Why  will  he  not  be  where  he  is, 

And  not  with  me? 
The  hours  that  are  m"  life  are  mine,  not  his, — 

Or  used  to  be. 

What  numerous  imps  invisible 

Has  he  at  hand, 
Far-flying  and  forlorn  as  what  they  tell 

At  his  command? 

What  hold  of  weirdness  or  of  worth 

Can  he  possess, 
That  he  may  speak  from  anywhere  on  earth 

His  loneliness? 
343 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Shall  I  be  caught  and  held  again 

In  the  old  net?— 
He  brought  a  sorry  sunbeam  with  him  then, 

But  it  beams  yet. 


FOR  ARVIA 
ON  HER  FIFTH  BIRTHDAY 

You  Eyes,  you  large  and  all-inquiring  Eyes, 

That  look  so  dubiously  into  me, 

And  are  not  satisfied  with  what  you  see, 

Tell  me  the  worst  and  let  us  have  no  lies: 

Tell  me  the  meaning  of  your  scrutinies. 

And  of  myself.    Am  I  a  Mystery? 

Am  I  a  Boojum — or  just  Company  ? 

What  do  you  say  ?    What  do  you  think,  You  Eyes  ? 

You  say  not;  but  you  think,  beyond  a  doubt; 

And  you  have  the  whole  world  to  think  about, 

With  very  little  time  for  little  things. 

So  let  it  be ;  and  let  it  all  be  fair — 

For  you,  and  for  the  rest  who  cannot  share 

Your  gold  of  unrevealed  awakenings. 


THE  SUNKEN  CROWN 

NOTHING  will  hold  him  longer — let  him  go ; 
Let  him  go  down  where  others  have  gone  down; 
Little  he  cares  whether  we  smile  or  frown, 
Or  if  we  know,  or  if  we  think  we  know. 
344 


SHADRACH  O'LEARY 

The  call  is  on  him  for  his  overthrow, 
Say  we;  so  let  him  rise,  or  let  him  drown. 
Poor  fool !    He  plunges  for  the  sunken  crown, 
And  we — we  wait  for  what  the  plunge  may  show. 

Well,  we  are  safe  enough.    Why  linger,  then? 
The  watery  chance  was  his,  not  ours.    Poor  fool  1 
Poor  truant,  poor  Narcissus  out  of  school ; 
Poor  jest  of  Ascalon;  poor  king  of  men. — 
The  crown,  if  he  be  wearing  it,  may  cool 
His  arrogance,  and  he  may  sleep  again. 


DOCTOR  OF  BILLIARDS 

OF  all  among  the  fallen  from  on  high, 
We  count  you  last  and  leave  you  to  regain 
Your  born  dominion  of  a  life  made  vain 
By  three  spheres  of  insidious  ivory. 
You  dwindle  to  the  lesser  tragedy — 
Content,  you  say.    We  call,  but  you  remain. 
Nothing  alive  gone  wrong  could  be  so  plain, 
Or  quite  so  blasted  with  absurdity. 

You  click  away  the  kingdom  that  is  yours, 
And  you  click  off  your  crown  for  cap  and  bells; 
You  smile,  who  are  still  master  of  the  feast, 
And  for  your  smile  we  credit  you  the  least; 
But  when  your  false,  unhallowed  laugh  occurs, 
We  seem  to  think  there  may  be  something  else. 

SHADRACH  O'LEARY 

O'LEARY  was  a  poet — for  a  while: 
He  sang  of  many  ladies  frail  and  fair, 
345 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  rolling  glory  of  their  golden  hair, 

And  emperors  extinguished  with  a  smile. 

They  foiled  his  years  with  many  an  ancient  wile, 

And  if  they  limped,  O'Leary  didn't  care: 

He  turned  them  loose  and  had  them  everywhere, 

Undoing  saints  and  senates  with  their  guile. 

But  this  was  not  the  end.    A  year  ago 
I  met  him — and  to  meet  was  to  admire: 
Forgotten  were  the  ladies  and  the  lyre, 
And  the  small,  ink-fed  Eros  of  his  dream. 
By  questioning  I  found  a  man  to  know — 
A  failure  spared,  a  Shadrach  of  the  Gleam. 

HOW  ANNANDALE  WENT  OUT 

"THEY  called  it  Annandale — and  I  was  there 

To  flourish,  to  find  words,  and  to  attend : 

Liar,  physician,  hypocrite,  and  friend, 

I  watched  him;  and  the  sight  was  not  so  fair 

As  one  or  two  that  I  have  seen  elsewhere: 

An  apparatus  not  for  me  to  mend — 

A  wreck,  with  hell  between  him  and  the  end, 

Remained  of  Annandale ;  and  I  was  there. 

'1  knew  the  ruin  as  I  knew  the  man ; 

So  put  the  two  together,  if  you  can, 

Remembering  the  worst  you  know  of  me. 

Now  view  yourself  as  I  was,  on  the  spot — 

With  a  slight  kind  of  engine.    Do  you  see? 

Like  this  .  .  .  You  wouldn't  hang  me  ?  I  thought  not." 

ALMA  MATER 

HE  knocked,  and  I  beheld  him  at  the  door — 
A  vision  for  the  gods  to  verify. 
346 


MINIVER  CHEEVY 

"What  battered  ancientry  is  this,"  thought  I, 
"And  when,  if  ever,  did  we  meet  before?" 
But  ask  him  as  I  might,  I  got  no  more 
For  answer  than  a  moaning  and  a  cry : 
Too  late  to  parley,  but  in  time  to  die, 
He  staggered,  and  lay  shapeless  on  the  floor. 

When  had  I  known  him  ?    And  what  brought  him  here  ? 

Love,  warning,  malediction,  hunger,  fear? 

Surely  I  never  thwarted  such  as  he? — 

Again,  what  soiled  obscurity  was  this: 

Out  of  what  scum,  and  up  from  what  abyss, 

Had  they  arrived — these  rags  of  memory? 


MINIVER  CHEEVY 

MINIVER  CHEEVY,  child  of  scorn, 

Grew  lean  while  he  assailed  the  seasons;  ) 

He  wept  that  he  was  ever  born, 

And  he  had  reasons. 

Miniver  loved  the  days  of  old 

When  swords  were  bright  and  steeds  were  prancing; 
The  vision  of  a  warrior  bold 

Would  set  him  dancing. 

Miniver  sighed  for  what  was  not, 

And  dreamed,  and  rested  from  his  labors; 

He  dreamed  of  Thebes  and  Camelot, 
And  Priam's  neighbors. 

Miniver  mourned  the  ripe  renown 

That  made  so  many%  name  so  fragrant; 

He  mourned  Romance,  now  on  the  town, 
And  Art,  a  vagrant. 

347 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Miniver  loved  the  Medici, 

Albeit  he  had  never  seen  one; 
He  would  have  sinned  incessantly 

Could  he  have  heen  one. 

Miniver  cursed  the  commonplace 
And  eyed  a  khaki  suit  with  loathing; 

He  missed  the  mediaeval  grace 
Of  iron  clothing. 

Miniver  scorned  the  gold  he  sought, 
But  sore  annoyed  was  he  without  it; 

Miniver  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought, 
And  thought  about  it. 

Miniver  Cheevy,  born  too  late, 

Scratched  his  head  and  kept  on  thinking; 
Miniver  coughed,  and  called  it  fate, 

And  kept  on  drinking. 


THE  PILOT 

FROM  the  Past  and  Unavailing 
Out  of  cloudland  we  are  steering : 
After  groping,  after  fearing, 
Into  starlight  we  come  trailing, 
And  we  find  the  stars  are  true. 
Still,  O  comrade,  what  of  you  ? 
You  are  gone,  but  we  are  sailing, 
And  the  old  ways  are  all  new. 

For  the  Lost  and  TJnreturning 
We  have  drifted,  we  have  waited; 
Uncommanded  and  unrated, 
348 


VICKERY'S  MOUNTAIN 

We  have  tossed  and  wandered,  yearning 
For  a  charm  that  comes  no  more 
From  the  old  lights  by  the  shore: 
We  have  shamed  ourselves  in  learning 
What  you  knew  so  long  before. 

For  the  Breed  of  the  Far-going 
Who  are  strangers,  and  all  brothers, 
May  forget  no  more  than  others 
Who  looked  seaward  with  eyes  flowing. 
But  are  brothers  to  bewail 
One  who  fought  so  foul  a  gale? 
You  have  won  beyond  our  knowing, 
You  are  gone,  but  yet  we  sail. 


VICKERY'S  MOUNTAIN 

BLUE  in  the  west  the  mountain  stands, 
And  through  the  long  twilight 

Vickery  sits  with  folded  hands, 
And  Vickery's  eyes  are  bright. 

Bright,  for  he  knows  what  no  man  else 

On  earth  as  yet  may  know: 
There's  a  golden  word  that  he  never  tells, 

And  a  gift  that  he  will  not  show. 

He  dreams  of  honor  and  wealth  and  fame, 

He  smiles,  and  well  he  may ; 
For  to  Vickery  once  a  sick  man  came 

Who  did  not  go  away. 

The  day  before  the  day  to  be, 

"Vickery,"  said  the  guest, 
"You  know  as  you  live  what's  left  of  me — 

And  you  shall  know  the  rest. 
349 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"You  know  as  you  live  that  I  have  come 

To  this  we  call  the  end. 
No  doubt  you  have  found  me  troublesome, 

But  you've  also  found  a  friend;    . 

"For  we  shall  give  and  you  shall  take 

The  gold  that  is  in  view; 
The  mountain  there  and  I  shall  make 

A  golden  man  of  you. 

"And  you  shall  leave  a  friend  behind 

Who  neither  frets  nor  feels; 
And  you  shall  move  among  your  kind 

With  hundreds  at  your  heels. 

"Now  this  that  I  have  written  here 

Tells  all  that  need  be  told ; 
So,  Vickery,  take  the  way  that's  clear. 

And  be  a  man  of  gold." 

Vickery  turned  his  eyes  again 

To  the  far  mountain-side, 
And  wept  a  tear  for  worthy  men 

Defeated  and  defied. 

Since  then  a  crafty  score  of  years 
Have  come,  and  they  have  gone; 

But  Vickery  counts  no  lost  arrears : 
He  lingers  and  lives  on. 

Blue  in  the  west  the  mountain  stands, 

Familiar  as  a  face. 
Blue,  but  Vickery  knows  what  sards 

Are  golden  at  its  base. 
350 


BON  VOYAGE 

He  dreams  and  lives  upon  the  day 
When  he  shall  walk  with  kings. 

Vickery  smiles — and  well  he  may. 
The  life-caged  linnet  sings. 

Vickery  thinks  the  time  will  come 

To  go  for  what  is  his; 
But  hovering,  unseen  hands  at  home 

Will  hold  him  where  he  is. 

There's  a  golden  word  that  he  never  tells 
And  a  gift  that  he  will  not  show. 

All  to  be  given  to  some  one  else — 
And  Vickery  not  to  know. 


BON  VOYAGE 

CHILD  of  a  line  accurst 

And  old  as  Troy, 
Bringer  of  best  and  worst 

In  wild  alloy — 
Light,  like  a  linnet  first, 

He  sang  for  joy. 

Thrall  to  the  gilded  ease 

Of  every  day, 
Mocker  of  all  degrees 

And  always  gay, 
Child  of  the  Cyclades 

And  of  Broadway — 

Laughing  and  half  divine 

The  boy  began, 
Drunk  with  a  woodland  wine 

Thessalian : 
But  there  was  rue  to  twine 

The  pipes  of  Pan. 
351 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Therefore  he  skipped  and  flew 

The  more  along, 
Vivid  and  always  new 

And  always  wrong, 
Knowing  his  only  clew 

A  siren  song. 

Careless  of  each  and  all 

He  gave  and  spent: 
Feast  or  a  funeral 

He  laughed  and  went, 
Laughing  to  be  so  small 

In  the  event. 

Told  of  his  own  deceit 

By  many  a  tongue, 
Flayed  for  his  long  defeat 

By  being  young, 
Lured  by  the  fateful  sweet 

Of  songs  unsung — 

Knowing  it  in  his  heart, 

But  knowing  not 
The  secret  of  an  art 

That  few  forgot, 
He  played  the  twinkling  part 

That  was  his  lot. 

And  when  the  twinkle  died, 

As  twinkles  do, 
He  pushed  himself  aside 

And  out  of  view: 
Out  with  the  wind  and  tide, 

Before  we  knew. 
352 


ATHERTON'S  GAMBIT 


THE  COMPANION 

LET  him  answer  as  he  will, 
Or  be  lightsome  as  he  may, 
Now  nor  after  shall  he  say 
Worn-out  words   enough  to  kill, 
Or  to  lull  down  by  their  craft, 
Doubt,  that  was  born  yesterday, 
When  he  lied  and  when  she  laughed. 

Let  him  find  another  name 
For  the  starlight  on  the  snow, 
Let  him  teach  her  till  she  know 
That  all  seasons  are  the  same, 
And  all  sheltered  ways  are  fair, — 
Still,  wherever  she  may  go, 
Doubt  will  have  a  dwelling  there. 


ATHERTON'S  GAMBIT 

THE  master  played  the  bishop's  pawn, 
For  jest,  while  Atherton  looked  on ; 
The  master  played  this  way  and  that, 
And  Atherton,  amazed  thereat, 
Said  "Now  I  have  a  thing  in  view 
That  will  enlighten  one  or  two, 
And  make  a  difference  or  so 
In  what  it  is  they  do  not  know." 

The  morning  stars  together  sang 
And  forth  a  mighty  music  rang — 
353 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Not  heard  by  many,  save  as  told 
Again  through  magic  manifold 
By  such  a  few  as  have  to  play 
For  others,  in  the  Master's  way, 
The  music  that  the  Master  made 
When  all  the  morning  stars  obeyed. 

Atherton  played  the  bishop's  pawn 
While  more  than  one  or  two  looked  on ; 
Atherton  played  this  way  and  that, 
And  many  a  friend,  amused  thereat, 
Went  on  about  his  business 
Nor  cared  for  Atherton  the  less ; 
A  few  stood  longer  by  the  game, 
With  Atherton  to  them  the  same. 


The  morning  stars  are  singing  still, 
To  crown,  to  challenge,  and  to  kill; 
And  if  perforce  there  falls  a  voice 
On  pious  ears  that  have  no  choice 
Except  to  urge  an  erring  hand 
To  wreak  its  homage  on  the  land, 
Who  of  us  that  is  worth  his  while 
Will,  if  he  listen,  more  than  smile? 

Who  of  us,  being  what  he  is, 
May  scoff  at  others'  ecstasies? 
However  we  may  shine  to-day, 
More-shining  ones  are  on  the  way; 
And  so  it  were  not  wholly  well 
To  be  at  odds  with  Azrael, — 
Nor  were  it  kind  of  any  one 
To  sing  the  end  of  Atherton. 
354 


TWO  GARDENS  IN  LINNDALE 

FOR  A  DEAD  LADY 

No  more  with  overflowing  light 
Shall  fill  the  eyes  that  now  are  faded, 
Nor  shall  another's  fringe  with  night 
Their  woman-hidden  world  as  they  did. 
No  more  shall  quiver  down  the  days 
The  flowing  wonder  of  her  ways, 
Whereof  no  language  may  requite 
The  shifting  and  the  many-shaded. 

The  grace,  divine,  definitive, 
Clings  only  as  a  faint  forestalling; 
The  laugh  that  love  could  not  forgive 
Is  hushed,  and  answers  to  no  calling; 
The  forehead  and  the  little  ears 
Have  gone  where  Saturn  keeps  the  years; 
The  breast  where  roses  could  not  live 
Has  done  with  rising  and  with  falling. 

The  beauty,  shattered  by  the  laws 
That  have  creation  in  their  keeping, 
No  longer  trembles  at  applause, 
Or  over  children  that  are  sleeping; 
And  we  who  delve  in  beauty's  lore 
Know  all  that  we  have  known  before 
Of  what  inexorable  cause 
Makes  Time  so  vicious  in  his  reaping. 

TWO  GARDENS  IN  LINNDALE 

Two  brothers,  Oakes  and  Oliver, 
Two  gentle  men  as  ever  were, 
Would  roam  no  longer,  but  abide 
In  Linndale,  where  their  fathers  died, 
And  each  would  be  a  gardener. 
355 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Now  first  we  fence  the  garden  through, 
With  this  for  me  and  that  for  you," 
Said  Oliver. — "Divine!"  said  Oakes, 
"And  I,  while  I  raise  artichokes, 
Will  do  what  I  was  born  to  do." 

"But  this  is  not  the  soil,  you  know," 
Said  Oliver,  "to  make  them  grow: 
The  parent  of  us,  who  is  dead, 
Compassionately  shook  his  head 
Once  on  a  time  and  told  me  so." 

"I  hear  you,  gentle  Oliver," 

Said  Oakes,  "and  in  your  character 

I  find  as  fair  a  thing  indeed 

As  ever  bloomed  and  ran  to  seed 

Since  Adam  was  a  gardener. 

"Still,  whatsoever  I  find  there, 
Forgive  me  if  I  do  not  share 
The  knowing  gloom  that  you  take  on 
Of  one  who  doubted  and  is  done: 
For  chemistry  meets  every  prayer." 

"Sometimes  a  rock  will  meet  a  plough," 
Said  Oliver;  "but  anyhow 
'Tis  here  we  are,  'tis  here  we  live, 
With  each  to  take  and  each  to  give : 
There's  no  room  for  a  quarrel  now. 

"I  leave  you  in  all  gentleness 
To  science  and  a  ripe  success. 
Now  .God  be  with  you,  brother  Oakes, 
With  you  and  with  your  artichokes : 
You  have  the  vision,  more  or  less." 
356 


TWO  GARDENS  IN  LINNDALE 

"By  fate,  that  gives  to  me  no  choice, 
I  have  the  vision  and  the  voice: 
Dear  Oliver,  believe  in  me, 
And  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see ; 
Henceforward  let  us  both  rejoice." 

"But  first,  while  we  have  joy  to  spare 
We'll  plant  a  little  here  and  there; 
And  if  you  be  not  in  the  wrong, 
We'll  sing  together  such  a  song 
As  no  man  yet  sings  anywhere." 

They  planted  and  with  fruitful  eyes 
Attended  each  his  enterprise. 
"Now  days  will  come  and  days  will  go, 
And  many  a  way  be  found,  we  know," 
Said  Oakes,  "and  we  shall  sing,  likewise." 

"The  days  will  go,  the  years  will  go, 
And  many  a  song  be  sung,  we  know," 
Said  Oliver;  "and  if  there  be 
Good  harvesting  for  you  and  me, 
Who  cares  if  we  sing  loud  or  low  ?" 

They  planted  once,  and  twice,  and  thrice, 
Like  amateurs  in  paradise; 
And  every  spring,  fond,  foiled,  elate, 
Said  Oakes,  "We  are  in  tune  with  Fate: 
One  season  longer  will  suffice." 

Year  after  year  'twas  all  the  same : 
With  none  to  envy,  none  to  blame, 
They  lived  along  in  innocence, 
Nor  ever  once  forgot  the  fence, 
Till  on  a  day  the  Stranger  came. 
357 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  came  to  greet  them  where  they  were, 
And  he  too  was  a  Gardener: 
He  stood  between  these  gentle  men, 
He  stayed  a  little  while,  and  then 
The  land  was  all  for  Oliver. 

"Tis  Oliver  who  tills  alone 
Two  gardens  that  are  now  his  own; 
'Tis  Oliver  who  sows  and  reaps 
And  listens,  while  the  other  sleeps, 
For  songs  undreamed  of  and  unknown. 

'Tis  he,  the  gentle  anchorite, 
Who  listens  for  them  day  and  night; 
But  most  he  hears  them  in  the  dawn, 
When  from  his  trees  across  the  lawn 
Birds  ring  the  chorus  of  the  light. 

He  cannot  sing  without  the  voice, 
But  he  may  worship  and  rejoice 
For  patience  in  him  to  remain, 
The  chosen  heir  of  age  and  pain, 
Instead  of  Oakes — who  had  no  choice. 

'Tis  Oliver  who  sits  heside 

The  other's  grave  at  eventide, 

And  smokes,  and  wonders  what  new  race 

Will  have  two  gardens,  by  God's  grace, 

In  Linndale,  where  their  fathers  died. 

And  often,  while  he  sits  and  smokes, 
He  sees  the  ghost  of  gentle  Oakes 
Uprooting,  with  a  restless  hand, 
Soft,  sKadowy  flowers  in  a  land 
Of  asphodels  and  artichokes. 
358 


THE  REVEALER 

THE  REVEALER 

(ROOSEVELT) 

He  turned  aside  to  see  the  carcase  of  the  lion:  and  behold,  there 
was  a  swarm  of  bees  and  honey  in  the  carcase  of  the  lion.  .  .  .  And 
the  men  of  the  city  said  unto  him,  What  is  sweeter  than  honey?  and 
what  is  stronger  than  a  lion? — Judges,  14. 

THE  palms  of  Mammon  have  disowned 
The  gift  of  our  complacency; 
The  bells  of  ages  have  intoned 
Again  their  rhythmic  irony; 
And  from  the  shadow,  suddenly, 
'Mid  echoes  of  decrepit  rage, 
The  seer  of  our  necessity 
Confronts  a  Tyrian  heritage. 

Equipped  with  unobscured  intent 
He  smiles  with  lions  at  the  gate, 
Acknowledging  the  compliment 
Like  one  familiar  with  his  fate; 
The  lions,  having  time  to  wait, 
Perceive  a  small  cloud  in  the  skies, 
Whereon  they  look,  disconsolate, 
With  scared,  reactionary  eyes. 

A  shadow  falls  upon  the  land, — 
They  sniff,  and  they  are  like  to  roar; 
For  they  will  never  understand 
What  they  have  never  seen  before. 
They  march  in  order  to  the  door, 
Not  knowing  the  best  thing  to  seek, 
Nor  caring  if  the  gods  restore 
The  lost  composite  of  the  Greek. 
359 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  shadow  fades,  the  light  arrives, 
And  ills  that  were  concealed  are  seen; 
The  combs  of  long-defended  hives 
Now  drip  dishonored  and  unclean; 
No  Nazarite  or  Nazarene 
Compels  our  questioning  to  prove 
The  difference  that  is  between 
Dead  lions — or  the  sweet  thereof. 

But  not  for  lions,  live  or  dead, 
Except  as  we  are  all  as  one, 
Is  he  the  world's  accredited 
Reveal er  of  what  we  have  done; 
What  You  and  I  and  Anderson 
Are  still  to  do  is  his  reward; 
If  we  go  back  when  he  is  gone — 
There  is  an  Angel  with  a  Sword. 

He  cannot  close  again  the  doors 

That  now  are  shattered  for  our  sake; 

He  cannot  answer  for  the  floors 

We  crowd  on,  or  for  walls  that  shake; 

He  cannot  wholly  undertake 

The  cure  of  our  immunity; 

He  cannot  hold  the  stars,  or  make 

Of  seven  years  a  century. 

So  Time  will  give  us  what  we  earn 
Who  flaunt  the  handful  for  the  whole, 
And  leave  us  all  that  we  may  learn 
Who  read  the  surface  for  the  soul; 
And  we'll  be  steering  to  the  goal, 
For  we  have  said  so  to  our  sons : 
When  we  who  ride  can  pay  the  toll, 
Time  humors  the  far-seeing  ones. 
360 


THE  REVEALER 

Down  to  our  nose's  very  end 
We  see,  and  are  invincible, — 
Too  vigilant  to  comprehend 
The  scope  of  what  we  cannot  sell; 
But  while  we  seem  to  know  as  well 
As  we  know  dollars,  or  our  skins, 
The  Titan  may  not  always  tell 
Just  where  the  boundary  begins. 


361 


LANCELOT 

(1920) 
To  Lewis  M.  Isaacs 


LANCELOT 


GAWAINE,  aware  again  of  Lancelot 
In  the  King's  garden,  coughed  and  followed  him ; 
Whereat  he  turned  and  stood  with  folded  arms 
And  weary-waiting  eyes,  cold  and  half-closed — 
Hard  eyes,  where  doubts  at  war  with  memories 
Fanned  a  sad  wrath.     "Why  frown  upon  a  friend  ? 
Few  live  that  have  too  many,"  Gawaine  said, 
And  wished  unsaid,  so  thinly  came  the  light 
Between  the  narrowing  lids  at  which  he  gazed. 
"And  who  of  us  are  they  that  name  their  friends  ?" 
Lancelot  said.     "They  live  that  have  not  any. 
Why  do  they  live,  Gawaine?    Ask  why,  and  answer." 

Two  men  of  an  elected  eminence, 
They  stood  for  a  time  silent.    Then  Gawaine, 
Acknowledging  the  ghost  of  what  was  gone, 
Put  out  his  hand:     "Eather,  I  say,  why  ask? 
If  I  be  not  the  friend  of  Lancelot, 
May  I  be  nailed  alive  along  the  ground 
And  emmets  eat  me  dead.    If  I  be  not 
The  friend  of  Lancelot,  may  I  be  fried 
With  other  liars  in  the  pans  of  hell. 
What  item  otherwise  of  immolation 
Your  Darkness  may  invent,  be  it  mine  to  endure 
And  yours  to  gloat  on.    For  the  time  between, 
Consider  this  thing  you  see  that  is  my  hand. 
If  once,  it  has  been  yours  a  thousand  times; 
365 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Why  not  again?    Gawaine  has  never  lied 

To  Lancelot;  and  this,  of  all  wrong  days — 

This  day  before  the  day  when  you  go  south 

To  God  knows  what  accomplishment  of  exile — 

Were  surely  an  ill  day  for  lies  to  find 

An  issue  or  a  cause  or  an  occasion. 

King  Ban  your  father  and  King  Lot  my  father, 

Were  they  alive,  would  shake  their  heads  in  sorrow 

To  see  us  as  we  are,  and  I  shake  mine 

In  wonder.    Will  you  take  my  hand,  or  no? 

Strong  as  I  am,  I  do  not  hold  it  out 

For  ever  and  on  air.    You  see — my  hand." 

Lancelot  gave  his  hand  there  to  Gawaine, 

Who  took  it,  held  it,  and  then  let  it  go, 

Chagrined  with  its  indifference. 

"Yes,  Gawaine, 

I  go  tomorrow,  and  I  wish  you  well; 
You  and  your  brothers,  Gareth,  Gaheris, — 
And  Agravaine;  yes,  even  Agravaine, 
Whose  tongue  has  told  all  Camelot  and  all  Britain 
More  lies  than  yet  have  hatched  of  Modred's  envy. 
You  say  that  you  have  never  lied  to  me, 
And  I  believe  it  so.    Let  it  be  so. 
For  now  and  always.    Gawaine,  I  wish  you  well. 
Tomorrow  I  go  south,  as  Merlin  went, 
But  not  for  Merlin's  end.    I  go,  Gawaine, 
And  leave  you  to  your  ways.    There  are  ways  left." 

"There  are  three  ways  I  know,  three  famous  ways, 
And  all  in  Holy  Writ,"  Gawaine  said,  smiling : 
"The  snake's  way  and  the  eagle's  way  are  two, 
And  then  we  have  a  man's  way  with  a  maid — 
Or  with  a  woman  who  is  not  a  maid. 
Your  late  way  is  to  send  all  women  scudding, 
To  the  last  flash  of  the  last  cramoisy, 
366 


LANCELOT 

While  you  go  south  to  find  the  fires  of  God. 

Since  we  came  back  again  to  Camelot 

From  our  immortal  Quest — I  came  back  first — 

No  man  has  known  you  for  the  man  you  were 

Before  you  saw  whatever  't  was  you  saw, 

To  make  so  little  of  kings  and  queens  and  friends 

Thereafter.    Modred?    Agravaine?    My  brothers? 

And  what  if  they  be  brothers  ?    What  are  brothers, 

If  they  be  not  our  friends,  your  friends  and  mine  ? 

You  turn  away,  and  my  words  are  no  mark 

On  you  affection  or  your  memory? 

So  be  it  then,  if  so  it  is  to  be. 

God  save  you,  Lancelot;  for  by  Saint  Stephen, 

You  are  no  more  than  man  to  save  yourself." 

"Gawaine,  I  do  not  say  that  you  are  wrong, 
Or  that  you  are  ill-seasoned  in  your  lightness; 
You  say  that  all  you  know  is  what  you  saw, 
And  on  your  own  averment  you  saw  nothing. 
Your  spoken  word,  Gawaine,  I  have  not  weighed 
In  those  unhappy  scales  of  inference 
That  have  no  beam  but  one  made  out  of  hates 
And  fears,  and  venomous  con  jecturings ; 
Your  tongue  is  not  the  sword  that  urges  me 
Now  out  of  Camelot.     Two  other  swords 
There  are  that  are  awake,  and  in  their  scabbards 
Are  parching  for  the  blood  of  Lancelot. 
Yet  I  go  not  away  for  fear  of  them, 
But  for  a  sharper  care.    You  say  the  truth, 
But  not  when  you  contend  the  fires  of  God 
Are  my  one  fear, — for  there  is  one  fear  more. 
Therefore  I  go.     Gawaine,  I  wish  you  well." 

'Well-wishing  in  a  way  is  well  enough; 
So,  in  a  way,  is  caution;  so,  in  a  way, 
367 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Are  leeches,  neatherds,  and  astrologers. 

Lancelot,  listen.     Sit  you  down  and  listen: 

You  talk  of  swords  and  fears  and  banishment. 

Two  swords,  you  say;  Modred  and  Agravaine, 

You  mean.    Had  you  meant  Gaheris  and  Gareth, 

Or  willed  an  evil  on  them,  I  should  welcome 

And  hasten  your  farewell.    But  Agravaine 

Hears  little  what  I  say;  his  ears  are  Modred's. 

The  King  is  Modred's  father,  and  the  Queen 

A  prepossession  of  Modred's  lunacy. 

So  much  for  my  two  brothers  whom  you  fear, 

Not  fearing  for  yourself.    I  say  to  you, 

Fear  not  for  anything — and  so  be  wise 

And  amiable  again  as  heretofore; 

Let  Modred  have  his  humor,  and  Agravaine 

His  tongue.    The  two  of  them  have  done  their  worst, 

And  having  done  their  worst,  what  have  they  done? 

A  whisper  now  and  then,  a  chirrup  or  so 

In  corners, — and  what  else?    Ask  what,  and  answer." 

Still  with  a  frown  that  had  no  faith  in  it, 
Lancelot,  pitying  Gawaine's  lost  endeavour 
To  make  an  evil  jest  of  evidence, 
Sat  fronting  him  with  a  remote  forbearance — 
Whether  for  Gawaine  blind  or  Gawaine  false, 
Or  both,  or  neither,  he  could  not  say  yet, 
If  ever;  and  to  himself  he  said  no  more 
Than  he  said  now  aloud :    "What  else,  Gawaine  ? 
What  else,  am  I  to  say  ?    Then  ruin,  I  say ; 
Destruction,  dissolution,  desolation, 
I  say, — should  I  compound  with  jeopardy  now. 
For  there  are  more  than  whispers  here,  Gawaine: 
The  way  that  we  have  gone  so  long  together 
Has  underneath  our  feet,  without  our  will, 
Become  a  twofold  faring.    Yours,  I  trust, 
368 


LANCELOT 

May  lead  you  always  on,  as  it  has  led  you, 

To  praise  and  to  much  joy.    Mine,  I  believe, 

Leads  off  to  battles  that  are  not  yet  fought, 

And  to  the  Light  that  once  had  blinded  me. 

When  I  came  back  from  seeing  what  I  saw, 

I  saw  no  place  for  me  in  Camelot. 

There  is  no  place  for  me  in  Camelot. 

There  is  no  place  for  me  save  where  the  Light 

May  lead  me;  and  to  that  place  I  shall  go. 

Meanwhile  I  lay  upon  your  soul  no  load 

Of  counsel  or  of  empty  admonition; 

Only  I  ask  of  you,  should  strife  arise 

In  Camelot,  to  remember,  if  you  may, 

That  you've  an  ardor  that  outruns  your  reason, 

Also  a  glamour  that  outshines  your  guile; 

And  you  are  a  strange  hater.    I  know  that; 

And  I'm  in  fortune  that  you  hate  not  me. 

Yet  while  we  have  our  sins  to  dream  about, 

Time  has  done  worse  for  time  than  in  our  making; 

Albeit  there  may  be  sundry  falterings 

And  falls  against  us  in  the  Book  of  Man." 

"Praise  Adam,  you  are  mellowing  at  last! 
I've  always  liked  this  world,  and  would  so  still; 
And  if  it  is  your  new  Light  leads  you  on 
To  such  an  admirable  gait,  for  God's  sake, 
Follow  it,  follow  it,  follow  it,  Lancelot; 
Follow  it  as  you  never  followed  glory. 
Once  I  believed  that  I  was  on  the  way 
That  you  call  yours,  but  I  came  home  again 
To  Camelot — and  Camelot  was  right, 
For  the  world  knows  its  own  that  knows  not  you; 
You  are  a  thing  too  vaporous  to  be  sharing 
The  carnal  feast  of  life.    You  mow  down  men 
Like  elder-stems,  and  you  leave  women  sighing 
369 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

For  one  more  sight  of  you ;  but  they  do  wrong. 
You  are  a  man  of  mist,  and  have  no  shadow. 
God  save  you,  Lancelot.    If  I  laugh  at  you, 
I  laugh  in  envy  and  in  admiration." 

The  joyless  evanescence  of  a  smile, 

Discovered  on  the  face  of  Lancelot 

By  Gawaine's  unrelenting  vigilance, 

Wavered,  and  with  a  sullen  change  went  out; 

And  then  there  was  the  music  of  a  woman 

Laughing  behind  them,  and  a  woman  spoke: 

"Gawaine,  you  said  'God  save  you,  Lancelot.' 

Why  should  He  save  him  any  more  to-day 

Than  on  another  day  ?    What  has  he  done, 

Gawaine,  that  God  should  save  him  ?"    Guinevere, 

With  many  questions  in  her  dark  blue  eyes 

And  one  gay  jewel  in  her  golden  hair, 

Had  come  upon  the  two  of  them  unseen, 

Till  now  she  was  a  russet  apparition 

At  which  the  two  arose — one  with  a  dash 

Of  easy  leisure  in  his  courtliness, 

One  with  a  stately  calm  that  might  have  pleased 

The  Queen  of  a  strange  land  indifferently. 

The  firm  incisive  languor  of  her  speech, 

Heard  once,  was  heard  through  battles:  "Lancelot, 

What  have  you  done  to-day  that  God  should  save  you? 

What  has  he  done,  Gawaine,  that  God  should  save  him  ? 

I  grieve  that  you  two  pinks  of  chivalry 

Should  be  so  near  me  in  my  desolation, 

And  I,  poor  soul  alone,  know  nothing  of  it. 

What  has  he  done,  Gawaine?" 

With  all  her  poise, 
To  Gawaine's  undeceived  urbanity 
She  was  less  queen  than  woman  for  the  nonce, 
370 


LANCELOT 

And  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  nickering 

Of  a  still  fear  that  would  not  be  veiled  wholly 

With  any  mask  of  mannered  nonchalance. 

"What  has  he  done?    Madam,  attend  your  nephew; 

And  learn  from  him,  in  your  incertitude, 

That  this  inordinate  man  Lancelot, 

This  engine  of  renown,  this  hewer  down  daily 

Of  potent  men  by  scores  in  our  late  warfare, 

Has  now  inside  his  head  a  foreign  fever 

That  urges  him  away  to  the  last  edge 

Of  everything,  there  to  efface  himself 

In  ecstasy,  and  so  be  done  with  us. 

Hereafter,  peradventure  certain  birds 

Will  perch  in  meditation  on  his  bones, 

Quite  as  if  they  were  some  poor  sailor's  bones, 

Or  felon's  jettisoned,  or  fisherman's, 

Or  fowler's  bones,  or  Mark  of  Cornwall's  bones. 

In  fine,  this  flower  of  men  that  was  our  comrade 

Shall  be  for  us  no  more,  from  this  day  on, 

Than  a  much  remembered  Frenchman  far  away. 

Magnanimously  I  leave  you  now  to  prize 

Your  final  sight  of  him;  and  leaving  you, 

I  leave  the  sun  to  shine  for  him  alone, 

Whiles  I  grope  on  to  gloom.    Madam,  farewell; 

And  you,  contrarious  Lancelot,  farewell." 

II 

THE  flash  of  oak  leaves  over  Guinevere 
That  afternoon,  with  the  sun  going  down, 
Made  memories  there  for  Lancelot,  although 
The  woman  who  in  silence  looked  at  him 
Now  seemed  his  inventory  of  the  world 
That  he  must  lose,  or  suffer  to  be  lost 
For  love  of  her  who  sat  there  in  the  shade, 
371 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

With  oak  leaves  flashing  in  a  golden  light 

Over  her  face  and  over  her  golden  hair. 

"Gawaine  has  all  the  graces,  yet  he  knows; 

He  knows  enough  to  be  the  end  of  us, 

If  so  he  would,"  she  said.    "He  knows  and  laughs 

And  we  are  at  the  mercy  of  a  man 

Who,  if  the  stars  went  out,  would  only  laugh." 

She  looked  away  at  a  small  swinging  blossom, 

And  then  she  looked  intently  at  her  fingers, 

While  a  frown  gathered  slowly  round  her  eyes, 

And  wrinkled  her  white  forehead. 

Lancelot, 

Scarce  knowing  whether  to  himself  he  spoke 
Or  to  the  Queen,  said  emptily:    "As  for  Gawaine, 
My  question  is,  if  any  curious  hind 
Or  knight  that  is  alive  in  Britain  breathing, 
Or  prince,  or  king,  knows  more  of  us,  or  less, 
Than  Gawaine,  in  his  gay  complacency, 
Knows  or  believes  he  knows.    There's  over  mucl 
Of  knowing  in  this  realm  of  many  tongues, 
Where  deeds  are  less  to  those  who  tell  of  them 
Than  are  the  words  they  sow;  and  you  and  I 
Are  like  to  yield  a  granary  of  such  words, 
For  God  knows  what  next  harvesting.    Gawain 
I  fear  no  more  than  Gareth,  or  Colgrevance; 
So  far  as  it  is  his  to  be  the  friend 
Of  any  man,  so  far  is  he  my  friend — 
Till  I  have  crossed  him  in  some  enterprise 
Unlikely  and  unborn.     So  fear  not  Gawainp 
But  let  your  primal  care  be  now  for  one 
Whose  name  is  yours." 

The  Queen,  with  her  blue  eyes 
Too  bright  for  joy,  still  gazed  on  Lancelot, 
372 


LANCELOT 

Who  stared  as  if  in  rngry  malediction 
Upon  the  shorn  grass  growing  at  his  feet. 
"Why  do  you  speak  as  if  the  grass  had  ears 
And  I  had  none?     What  are  you  saying  now, 
So  darkly  to  the  grass,  of  knights  and  hinds? 
Are  you  the  Lancelot  who  rode,  long  since, 
Away  from  me  on  that  unearthly  Quest, 
Which  left  no  man  the  same  who  followed  it — 
Or  none  save  Gawaine,  who  came  back  so  soon 
That  we  had  hardly  missed  him  ?"    Faintly  then 
She  smiled  a  little,  more  in  her  defence, 
He  knew,  than  for  misprision  of  a  man 
Whom  yet  she  feared :     "Why  do  you  set  this  day — 
This  golden  day,  when  all  are  not  so  golden — 
To  tell  me,  with  your  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
That  idle  words  have  been  for  idle  tongues 
And  ears  a  moment's  idle  entertainment? 
Have  I  become,  and  all  at  once,  a  thing 
So  new  to  courts,  and  to  the  buzz  they  make, 
That  I  should  hear  no  murmur,  see  no  sign? 
Where  malice  and  ambition  dwell  with  envy, 
They  go  the  farthest  who  believe  the  least; 
So  let  them, — while  I  ask  of  you  again, 
Why  this  day  for  all  this?    Was  yesterday 
A  day  of  ouphes  and  omens  ?    Was  it  Friday  ? 
I  don't  remember.     Days  are  all  alike 
When  I  have  you  to  look  on;  when  you  go, 
There  are  no  days  but  hours.    You  might  say  now 
What  Gawaine  said,  and  say  it  in  our  language." 
The  sharp  light  still  was  in  her  eyes,  alive 
And  anxious  with  a  reminiscent  fear. 

Lancelot,  like  a  strong  man  stricken  hard 
With  pain,  looked  up  at  her  unhappily; 
And  slowly,  on  a  low  and  final  note, 
373 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Said:     "Gawaine  laughs  alike  at  what  he  knows, 
And  at  the  loose  convenience  of  his  fancy; 
He  sees  in  others  what  his  humor  needs 
To  nourish  it,  and  lives  a  merry  life. 
Sometimes  a  random  shaft  of  his  will  hit 
Nearer  the  mark  than  one  a  wise  man  aims 
With  infinite  address  and  reservation; 
So  has  it  come  to  pass  this  afternoon." 

Blood  left  the  quivering  cheeks  of  Guinevere 

As  color  leaves  a  cloud ;  and  where  white  was 

Before,  there  was  a  ghostliness  not  white, 

But  gray;  and  over  it  her  shining  hair 

Coiled  heavily  its  mocking  weight  of  gold. 

The  pride  of  her  forlorn  light-heartedness 

Fled  like  a  storm-blown  feather;  and  her  fear, 

Possessing  her,  was  all  that  she  possessed. 

She  sought  for  Lancelot,  but  he  seemed  gone. 

There  was  a  strong  man  glowering  in  a  chair 

Before  her,  but  he  was  not  Lancelot, 

Or  he  would  look  at  her  and  say  to  her 

That  Gawaine's  words  were  less  than  chaff  in  the  wind- 

A  nonsense  about  exile,  birds,  and  bones, 

Born  of  an  indolence  of  empty  breath. 

"Say  what  has  come  to  pass  this  afternoon," 

She  said,  "or  I  shall  hear  you  all  my  life, 

Not  hearing  what  it  was  you  might  have  told." 

He  felt  the  trembling  of  her  slow  last  words, 
And  his  were  trembling  as  he  answered  them : 
"Why  this  day,  why  no  other?     So  you  ask, 
And  so  must  I  in  honor  tell  you  more — 
For  what  end,  I  have  yet  no  braver  guess 
Than  Modred  has  of  immortality, 
Or  you  of  Gawaine.    Could  I  have  him  alone 
374 


LANCELOT 

Between  me  and  the  peace  I  cannot  know, 

My  life  were  like  the  sound  of  golden  bells 

Over  still  fields  at  sunset,  where  no  storm 

Should  ever  blast  the  sky  with  fire  again, 

Or  thunder  follow  ruin  for  you  and  me, — 

As  like  it  will,  if  I  for  one  more  day, 

Assume  that  I  see  not  what  I  have  seen, 

See  now,  and  shall  see.    There  are  no  more  lies 

Left  anywhere  now  for  me  to  tell  myself 

That  I  have  not  already  told  myself, 

And  overtold,  until  today  I  seem 

To  taste  them  as  I  might  the  poisoned  fruit 

That  Patrise  had  of  Mador,  and  so  died. 

And  that  same  apple  of  death  was  to  be  food 

For  Gawaine;  but  he  left  it  and  lives  on, 

To  make  his  joy  of  living  your  confusion. 

His  life  is  his  religion;  he  loves  life 

With  such  a  manifold  exuberance 

That  poison  shuns  him  and  seeks  out  a  way 

To  wreak  its  evil  upon  innocence. 

There  may  be  chance  in  this,  there  may  be  1 

Be  what  there  be,  I  do  not  fear  Gawaine." 

The  Queen,  with  an  indignant  little  foot, 
Struck  viciously  the  unoffending  grass 
And  said :    "Why  not  let  Gawaine  go  his  way  ? 
I'll  think  of  him  no  more,  fear  him  no  more, 
And  hear  of  him  no  more.    I'll  hear  no  more 
Of  any  now  save  one  who  is,  or  was, 
All  men  to  me.    And  he  said  once  to  me 
That  he  would  say  why  this  day,  of  all  days, 
Was  more  mysteriously  felicitous 
For  solemn  commination  than  another." 
Again  she  smiled,  but  her  blue  eyes  were  telling 
No  more  their  story  of  old  happiness. 
375 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"For  me  today  is  not  as  other  days," 

He  said,  "because  it  is  the  first,  I  find, 

That  has  empowered  my  will  to  say  to  you 

What  most  it  is  that  you  must  hear  and  heed. 

When  Arthur,  with  a  faith  unfortified, 

Sent  me  alone,  of  all  he  might  have  sent, 

That  May-day  to  Leodogran  your  father, 

I  went  away  from  him  with  a  sore  heart ; 

For  in  my  heart  I  knew  that  I  should  fail 

My  King,  who  trusted  me  too  far  beyond 

The  mortal  outpost  of  experience. 

And  this  was  after  Merlin's  admonition, 

Which  Arthur,  in  his  passion,  took  for  less 

Than  his  inviolable  majesty. 

When  I  rode  in  between  your  father's  guards 

And  heard  his  trumpets  blown  for  my  loud  honor, 

I  sent  my  memory  back  to  Camelot, 

And  said  once  to  myself,  'God  save  the  king !' 

But  the  words  tore  my  throat  and  were  like  blood 

Upon  my  tongue.     Then  a  great  shout  went  up 

From  shining  men  around  me  everywhere; 

And  I  remember  more  fair  women's  eyes 

Than  there  are  stars  in  autumn,  all  of  them 

Thrown  on  me  for  a  glimpse  of  that  high  knight 

Sir  Lancelot — Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake. 

I  saw  their  faces  and  I  saw  not  one 

To  sever  a  tendril  of  my  integrity; 

But  I  thought  once  again,  to  make  myself 

Believe  a  silent  lie,  'God  save  the  King5  .  .  . 

I  saw  your  face,  and  there  were  no  more  kings." 

The  sharp  light  softened  in  the  Queen's  blue  eyes, 
And  for  a  moment  there  was  joy  in  them: 
<fWas  I  so  menacing  to  the  peace,  I  wonder, 
Of  anyone  else  alive?    But  why  go  back? 
3Y6 


LANCELOT 

I  tell  you  that  I  fear  Gawaine  no  more; 
And  if  you  fear  him  not,  and  I  fear  not 
What  you  fear  not,  what  have  we  then  to  fear  ?" 
Fatigued  a  little  with  her  reasoning, 
She  waited  longer  than  a  woman  waits, 
Without  a  cloudy  sign,  for  Lancelot's 
Unhurried  answer:     "Whether  or  not  you  fear, 
Know  always  that  I  fear  for  me  no  stroke 
Maturing  for  the  joy  of  any  knave 
Who  sees  the  world,  with  me  alive  in  it, 
A  place  too  crowded  for  the  furtherance 
Of  his  inflammatory  preparations. 
But  Lot  of  Orkney  had  a  wife,  a  dark  one; 
And  rumor  says  no  man  who  gazed  at  her, 
Attentively,  might  say  his  prayers  again 
Without  a  penance  or  an  absolution. 
I  know  not  about  that;  but  the  world  knows 
That  Arthur  prayed  in  vain  once,  if  he  prayed, 
Or  we  should  have  no  Modred  watching  us. 
Know  then  that  what  you  fear  to  call  my  fear 
Is  all  for  you;  and  what  is  all  for  you 
Is  all  for  love,  which  were  the  same  to  me 
As  life — had  I  not  seen  what  I  have  seen. 
But  first  I  am  to  tell  you  what  I  see, 
And  what  I  mean  by  fear.    It  is  yourself 
That  I  see  now;  and  if  I  saw  you  only, 
I  might  forego  again  all  other  service, 
And  leave  to  Time,  who  is  Love's  almoner, 
The  benefaction  of  what  years  or  days 
Remaining  might  be  found  unchronicled 
For  two  that  have  not  always  watched  or  seen 
The  sands  of  gold  that  flow  for  golden  hours. 
If  I  saw  you  alone!    But  I  know  now 
That  you  are  never  more  to  be  alone. 
The  shape  of  one  infernal  foul  attendant 
377 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Will  be  for  ever  prowling  after  you, 

To  leer  at  me  like  a  damned  thing  whipped  out 

Of  the  last  cave  in  hell.    You  know  his  name. 

Over  your  shoulder  I  could  see  him  now, 

Adventuring  his  misbegotten  patience 

For  one  destroying  word  in  the  King's  ear — 

The  word  he  cannot  whisper  there  quite  yet, 

Not  having  it  yet  to  say.    If  he  should  say  it, 

Then  all  this  would  be  over,  and  our  days 

Of  life,  your  days  and  mine,  be  over  with  it. 

No  day  of  mine  that  were  to  be  for  you 

Your  last,  would  light  for  me  a  longer  span 

Than  for  yourself;  and  there  would  be  no  twilight." 

The  Queen's  implacable  calm  eyes  betrayed 
The  doubt  that  had  as  yet  for  what  he  said 
No  healing  answer:     "If  I  fear  no  more 
Gawaine,  I  fear  your  Modred  even  less. 
Your  fear,  you  say,  is  for  an  end  outside 
Your  safety ;  and  as  much  as  that  I  grant  you. 
And  I  believe  in  your  belief,  moreover, 
That  some  far-off  unheard-of  retribution 
Hangs  over  Camelot,  even  as  this  oak-bough, 
That  I  may  almost  reach,  hangs  overhead, 
All  dark  now.    Only  a  small  time  ago 
The  light  was  falling  through  it,  and  on  me. 
Another  light,  a  longer  time  ago, 
Was  living  in  your  eyes,  and  we  were  happy. 
Yet  there  was  Modred  then  as  he  is  now, 
As  much  a  danger  then  as  he  is  now, 
And  quite  as  much  a  nuisance.    Let  his  eyes 
Have  all  the  darkness  in  them  they  may  hold, 
And  there  will  be  less  left  of  it  outside 
For  fear  to  grope  and  thrive  in.    Lancelot, 
I  say  the  dark  is  not  what  you  fear  most. 
378 


LANCELOT 

There  is  a  Light  that  you  fear  more  today 
Than  all  the  darkness  that  has  ever  been; 
Yet  I  doubt  not  that  your  Light  will  burn  on 
For  some  time  yet  without  your  ministration. 
I'm  glad  for  Modred, — though  I  hate  his  eyes, — 
That  he  should  hold  me  nearer  to  your  thoughts 
Than  I  should  hold  myself,  I  fear,  without  him; 
I'm  glad  for  Gawaine,  also, — who,  you  tell  me, 
Misled  my  fancy  with  his  joy  of  living." 

Incredulous  of  her  voice  and  of  her  lightness, 

He  saw  now  in  the  patience  of  her  smile 

A  shining  quiet  of  expectancy 

That  made  as  much  of  his  determination 

As  he  had  made  of  giants  and  Sir  Peris. 

"But  I  have  more  to  say  than  you  have  heard," 

He  faltered — "though  God  knows  what  you  have  heard 

Should  be  enough." 

"I  see  it  now,"  she  said; 
"I  see  it  now  as  always  women  must 
Who  cannot  hold  what  holds  them  any  more. 
If  Modred's  hate  were  now  the  only  hazard — 
The  only  shadow  between  you  and  me — 
How  long  should  I  be  saying  all  this  to  you, 
Or  you  be  listening?    No,  Lancelot, — no. 
I  knew  it  coming  for  a  longer  time 
Than  you  fared  for  the  Grail.    You  told  yourself, 
When  first  that  wild  light  came  to  make  men  mad 
Eound  Arthur's  Table — as  Gawaine  told  himself, 
And  many  another  tired  man  told  himself — 
That  it  was  God,  not  something  new,  that  called  you. 
Well,  God  was  something  new  to  most  of  them, 
And  so  they  went  away.    But  you  were  changing 
Long  before  you,  or  Bors,  or  Percival, 
379 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Or  Galahad  rode  away — or  poor  Gawaine, 
Who  came  back  presently;  and  for  a  time 
Before  you  went — albeit  for  no  long  time — 
I  may  have  made  for  your  too  loyal  patience 
A  jealous  exhibition  of  my  folly — 
All  for  those  two  Elaines;  and  one  of  them 
Is  dead,  poor  child,  for  you.    How  do  you  feel, 
You  men,  when  women  die  for  you  ?    They  do, 
Sometimes,  you  know.    Not  often,  but  sometimes." 

Discomfiture,  beginning  with  a  scowl 

And  ending  in  a  melancholy  smile, 

Crept  over  Lancelot's  face  the  while  he  stared, 

More  like  a  child  than  like  the  man  he  was, 

At  Guinevere's  demure  serenity 

Before  him  in  the  shadow,  soon  to  change 

Into  the  darkness  of  a  darker  night 

Than  yet  had  been  since  Arthur  was  a  king. 

"What  seizure  of  an  unrelated  rambling 

Do  you  suppose  it  was  that  had  you  then?" 

He  said;  and  with  a  frown  that  had  no  smile 

Behind  it,  he  sat  brooding. 

The  Queen  laughed, 

And  looked  at  him  again  with  lucent  eyes 
That  had  no  sharpness  in  them ;  they  were  soft  now, 
And  a  blue  light,  made  wet  with  happiness, 
Distilled  from  pain  into  abandonment, 
Shone  out  of  them  and  held  him  while  she  smiled, 
Although  they  trembled  with  a  questioning 
Of  what  his  gloom  foretold :    "All  that  I  saw 
Was  true,  and  I  have  paid  for  what  I  saw — 
More  than  a  man  may  know.    Hear  me,  and  listen : 
You  cannot  put  me  or  the  truth  aside, 
With  half-told  words  that  I  could  only  wish 

380 


LANCELOT 

No  man  had  said  to  me;  not  you,  of  all  men. 
If  there  were  only  Modred  in  the  way, 
Should  I  see  now,  from  here  and  in  this  light, 
So  many  furrows  over  your  changed  eyes  ? 
Why  do  you  fear  for  me  when  all  my  fears 
Are  for  the  needless  burden  you  take  on  ? 
To  put  me  far  away,  and  your  fears  with  me, 
Were  surely  no  long  toil,  had  you  the  will 
To  say  what  you  have  known  and  1  have  known 
Longer  than  I  dare  guess.     Have  little  fear: 
Never  shall  I  become  for  you  a  curse 
Laid  on  your  conscience  to  be  borne  for  ever; 
Nor  shall  I  be  a  weight  for  you  to  drag 
On  always  after  you,  as  a  poor  slave 
Drags  iron  at  his  heels.     Therefore,  today, 
These  ominous  reassurances  of  mine 
Would  seem  to  me  to  be  a  waste  of  life, 
And  more  than  life." 

Lancelot's  memory  wandered 
Into  the  blue  and  wistful  distances 
That  her  soft  eyes  unveiled.    He  knew  their  trick, 
As  he  knew  the  great  love  that  fostered  it, 
And  the  wild  passionate  fate  that  hid  itself 
In  all  the  perilous  calm  of  white  and  gold 
That  was  her  face  and  hair,  and  might  as  well 
Have  been  of  gold  and  marble  for  the  world, 
And  for  the  King.    Before  he  knew,  she  stood 
Behind  him  with  her  warm  hands  on  his  cheeks, 
And  her  lips  on  his  lips;  and  though  he  heard 
Not  half  of  what  she  told,  he  heard  enough 
To  make  as  much  of  it,  or  so  it  seemed, 
As  man  was  ever  told,  or  should  be  told, 
Or  need  be,  until  everything  was  told, 
And  all  the  mystic  silence  of  the  stars 
381 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Had  nothing  more  to  keep  or  to  reveal. 

"If  there  were  only  Modred  in  the  way," 

She  murmured,  "would  you  come  to  me  tonight? 

The  King  goes  to  Carleon  or  Carlisle, 

Or  some  place  where  there's  hunting.    Would  you  come, 

If  there  were  only  Modred  in  the  way?" 

She  felt  his  hand  on  hers  and  laid  her  cheek 

Upon  his  forehead,  where  the  furrows  were: 

"All  these  must  go  away,  and  so  must  I — 

Before  there  are  more  shadows.    You  will  come, 

And  you  may  tell  me  everything  you  must 

That  I  must  hear  you  tell  me — if  I  must — 

Of  bones  and  horrors  and  of  horrid  waves 

That  break  for  ever  on  the  world's  last  edge." 

Ill 

LANCELOT  looked  about  him,  but  he  saw 
No  Guinevere.    The  place  where  she  had  sat 
Was  now  an  empty  chair  that  might  have  been 
The  shadowy  throne  of  an  abandoned  world, 
But  for  the  living  fragrance  of  a  kiss 
That  he  remembered,  and  a  living  voice 
That  hovered  when  he  saw  that  she  was  gone. 
There  was  too  much  remembering  while  he  felt 
Upon  his  cheek  the  warm  sound  of  her  words; 
There  was  too  much  regret ;  there  was  too  much 
Remorse.    Regret  was  there  for  what  had  gone, 
Remorse  for  what  had  come.    Yet  there  was  time, 
That  had  not  wholly  come.    There  was  time  enough 
Between  him  and  the  night — as  there  were  shoals 
Enough,  no  doubt,  that  in  the  sea  somewhere 
Were  not  yet  hidden  by  the  drowning  tide. 
"So  there  is  here  between  me  and  the  dark 
Some  twilight  left,"  he  said.    He  sighed,  and  said 
382 


LANCELOT 

Again,  "Time,  tide,  and  twilight — and  the  dark; 
And  then,  for  me,  the  Light.    But  what  for  her? 
I  do  not  think  of  anything  but  life 
That  I  may  give  to  her  by  going  now; 
And  if  I  look  into  her  eyes  again, 
Or  feel  her  breath  upon  my  face  again, 
God  knows  if  I  may  give  so  much  as  life; 
Or  if  the  durance  of  her  loneliness 
Would  have  it  for  the  asking.    What  am  I? 
What  have  I  seen  that  I  must  leave  behind 
So  much  of  heaven  and  earth  to  burn  itself 
Away  in  white  and  gold,  until  in  time 
There  shall  be  no  more  white  and  no  more  gold? 
I  cannot  think  of  such  a  time  as  that; 
I  cannot — yet  I  must ;  for  I  am  he 
That  shall  have  hastened  it  and  hurried  on 
To  dissolution  all  that  wonderment — 
That  envy  of  all  women  who  have  said 
She  was  a  child  of  ice  and  ivory; 
And  of  all  men,  save  one.    And  who  is  he? 
Who  is  this  Lancelot  that  has  betrayed 
His  King,  and  served  him  with  a  cankered  honor? 
Who  is  this  Lancelot  that  sees  the  Light 
And  waits  now  in  the  shadow  for  the  dark? 
Who  is  this  King,  this  Arthur,  who  believes 
That  what  has  been,  and  is,  will  be  for  ever, — 
Who  has  no  eye  for  what  he  will  not  see, 
And  will  see  nothing  but  what's  passing  here 
In  Camelot,  which  is  passing?    Why  are  we  here? 
What  are  we  doing — kings,  queens,  Camelots, 
And  Lancelots?    And  what  is  this  dim  world 
That  I  would  leave,  and  cannot  leave  tonight 
Because  a  Queen  is  in  it  and  a  King 
Has  gone  away  to  some  place  where  there's  hunting- 
Carleon  or  Carlisle!    Who  is  this  Queen, 
383 


This  pale  witch-wonder  of  white  fire  and  gold, 

This  Guinevere  that  I  brought  back  with  me 

From  Cameliard  for  Arthur,  who  knew  then 

What  Merlin  told,  as  he  forgets  it  now 

And  rides  away  from  her — God  watch  the  world! — 

To  some  place  where  there's  hunting !    What  are  kings  ? 

And  how  much  longer  are  there  to  be  kings  ? 

When  are  the  millions  who  are  now  like  worms 

To  know  that  kings  are  worms,  if  they  are  worms  ? 

When  are  the  women  who  make  toys  of  men 

To  know  that  they  themselves  are  less  than  toys 

When  Time  has  laid  upon  their  skins  the  touch 

Of  his  all-shrivelling  fingers  ?    When  are  they 

To  know  that  men  must  have  an  end  of  them 

When  men  have  seen  the  Light  and  left  the  world 

That  I  am  leaving  now.    Yet,  here  I  am, 

And  all  because  a  king  has  gone  a-hunting.  .  .  . 

Carleon  or  Carlisle!" 

So  Lancelot 

Fed  with  a  sullen  rancor,  which  he  knew 
To  be  as  false  as  he  was  to  the  King, 
The  passion  and  the  fear  that  now  in  him 
Were  burning  like  two  slow  infernal  fires 
That  only  flight  and  exile  far  away 
From  Camelot  should  ever  cool  again. 
"Yet  here  I  am,"  he  said, — "and  here  I  am. 
Time,  tide,  and  twilight ;  and  there  is  no  twilight — 
And  there  is  not  much  time.    But  there's  enough 
To  eat  and  drink  in;  and  there  may  be  time 
For  me  to  frame  a  jest  or  two  to  prove 
How  merry  a  man  may  be  who  sees  the  Light. 
And  I  must  get  me  up  and  go  along, 
Before  the  shadows  blot  out  everything, 
And  leave  me  stumbling  among  skeletons. 
384 


LANCELOT 

God,  what  a  rain  of  ashes  falls  on  him 
Who  sees  the  new  and  cannot  leave  the  old  1" 

He  rose  and  looked  away  into  the  south 
Where  a  gate  was,  by  which  he  might  go  out, 
Now,  if  he  would,  while  Time  was  yet  there  with  him- 
Time  that  was  tearing  minutes  out  of  life 
While  he  stood  shivering  in  his  loneliness, 
And  while  the  silver  lights  of  memory 
Shone  faintly  on  a  far-off  eastern  shore 
Where  he  had  seen  on  earth  for  the  last  time 
The  triumph  and  the  sadness  in  the  face 
Of  Galahad,  for  whom  the  Light  was  waiting. 
Now  he  could  see  the  face  of  him  again, 
He  fancied;  and  his  flickering  will  adjured  him 
To  follow  it  and  be  free.    He  followed  it 
Until  it  faded  and  there  was  no  face, 
And  there  was  no  more  light.    Yet  there  was  time 
That  had  not  come,  though  he  could  hear  it  now 
Like  ruining  feet  of  marching  conquerors 
That  would  be  coming  soon  and  were  not  men. 
Forlornly  and  unwillingly  he  came  back 
To  find  the  two  dim  chairs.     In  one  of  them 
Was  Guinevere,  and  on  her  phantom  face 
There  fell  a  golden  light  that  might  have  been 
The  changing  gleam  of  an  unchanging  gold 
That  was  her  golden  hair.     He  sprang  to  touch 
The  wonder  of  it,  but  she  too  was  gone, 
Like  Galahad ;  he  was  alone  again 
With  shadows,  and  one  face  that  he  still  saw. 
The  world  had  no  more  faces  now  than  one 
That  for  a  moment,  with  a  flash  of  pain, 
Had  shown  him  what  it  is  that  may  be  seen 
In  embers  that  break  slowly  into  dust, 
Where  for  a  time  was  fire.    He  saw  it  there 
385 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Before  him,  and  he  knew  it  was  not  good 
That  he  should  learn  so  late,  and  of  this  hour, 
What  men  may  leave  behind  them  in  the  eyes 
Of  women  who  have  nothing  more  to  give, 
And  may  not  follow  after.    Once  again 
He  gazed  away  to  southward,  but  the  face 
Of  Galahad  was  not  there.    He  turned,  and  saw 
Before  him,  in  the  distance,  many  lights 
In  Arthur's  palace;  for  the  dark  had  come 
To  Camelot,  while  Time  had  come  and  gone. 

IV 

NOT  having  viewed  Carleon  or  Carlisle, 

The  King  came  home  to  Camelot  after  midnight, 

Feigning  an  ill  not  feigned;  and  his  return 

Brought  Bedivere,  and  after  him  Gawaine, 

To  the  King's  inner  chamber,  where  they  waited 

Through  the  grim  light  of  dawn.    Sir  Bedivere, 

By  nature  stern  to  see,  though  not  so  bleak 

Within  as  to  be  frozen  out  of  mercy, 

Sat  with  arms  crossed  and  with  his  head  weighed  low 

In  heavy  meditation.     Once  or  twice 

His  eyes  were  lifted  for  a  careful  glimpse 

Of  Gawaine  at  the  window,  where  he  stood 

Twisting  his  fingers  feverishly  behind  him, 

Like  one  distinguishing  indignantly, 

For  swift  eclipse  and  for  offence  not  his, 

The  towers  and  roofs  and  the  sad  majesty 

Of  Camelot  in  the  dawn,  for  the  last  time. 

Sir  Bedivere,  at  last,  with  a  long  sigh 
That  said  less  of  his  pain  than  of  his  pity, 
Addressed  the  younger  knight  who  turned  and  heard 
His  elder,  but  with  no  large  eagerness : 
386 


LANCELOT 

"So  it  has  come,  Gawaine ;  and  we  are  here. 
I  find  when  I  see  backward  something  farther, 
By  grace  of  time,  than  you  are  given  to  see — 
Though  you,  past  any  doubt,  see  much  that  I 
See  not — I  find  that  what  the  colder  speech 
Of  reason  most  repeated  says  to  us 
Of  what  is  in  a  way  to  come  to  us 
Is  like  enough  to  come.    And  we  are  here. 
Before  the  unseeing  sun  is  here  to  mock  us, 
Or  the  King  here  to  prove  us,  we  are  here. 
We  are  the  two,  it  seems,  that  are  to  make 
Of  words  and  of  our  presences  a  veil 
Between  him  and  the  sight  of  what  he  does. 
Little  have  I  to  say  that  I  may  tell  him: 
For  what  I  know  is  what  the  city  knows, 
Not  what  it  says, — for  it  says  everything. 
The  city  says  the  first  of  all  who  met 
The  sword  of  Lancelot  was  Colgrevance, 
Who  fell  dead  while  he  wept — a  brave  machine, 
Cranked  only  for  the  rudiments  of  war. 
But  some  of  us  are  born  to  serve  and  shift, 
And  that's  not  well.    The  city  says,  also, 
That  you  and  Lancelot  were  in  the  garden, 
Before  the  sun  went  down." 

"Yes,"  Gawaine  groaned; 
"Yes,  we  were  there  together  in  the  garden, 
Before  the  sun  went  down;  and  I  conceive 
A  place  among  the  possibilities 
For  me  with  other  causes  unforeseen 
Of  what  may  shake  down  soon  to  grief  and  ashes 
This  kingdom  and  this  empire.    Bedivere, 
Could  I  have  given  a  decent  seriousness 
To  Lancelot  while  he  said  things  to  me 
That  pulled  his  heart  half  out  of  him  by  the  roots, 

387 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  left  him,  I  see  now,  half  sick  with  pity 

For  my  poor  uselessness  to  serve  a  need 

That  I  had  never  known,  we  might  be  now 

Asleep  and  easy  in  our  beds  at  home, 

And  we  might  hear  no  murmurs  after  sunrise 

Of  what  we  are  to  hear.    A  few  right  words 

Of  mine,  if  said  well,  might  have  been  enough. 

That  shall  I  never  know.    I  shall  know  only 

That  it  was  I  who  laughed  at  Lancelot 

When  he  said  what  lay  heaviest  on  his  heart. 

By  now  he  might  be  far  away  from  here, 

And  farther  from  the  world.    But  the  Queen  came; 

The  Queen  came,  and  I  left  them  there  together; 

And  I  laughed  as  I  left  them.    After  dark 

I  met  with  Modred  and  said  what  I  could, 

When  I  had  heard  him,  to  discourage  him. 

His  mother  was  my  mother.    I  told  Bors, 

And  he  told  Lancelot ;  though  as  for  that, 

My  story  would  have  been  the  same  as  his, 

And  would  have  had  the  same  acknowledgment : 

'Thanks,  but  no  matter' — or  to  that  effect. 

The  Queen,  of  course,  had  fished  him  for  his  word, 

And  had  it  on  the  hook  when  she  went  home; 

And  after  that,  an  army  of  red  devils 

Could  not  have  held  the  man  away  from  her. 

And  I'm  to  live  as  long  as  I'm  to  wonder 

What  might  have  been,  had  I  not  been — myself. 

I  heard  him,  and  I  laughed.    Then  the  Queen  came." 

"Recriminations  are  not  remedies, 
Gawaine ;  and  though  you  cast  them  at  yourself, 
And  hurt  yourself,  you  cannot  end  or  swerve 
The  flowing  of  these  minutes  that  leave  hours 
Behind  us,  as  we  leave  our  faded  selves 
And  yesterdays.     The  surest-visioned  of  us 
388 


LANCELOT 

Are  creatures  of  our  dreams  and  inferences, 

And  though  it  look  to  us  a  few  go  far 

For  seeing  far,  the  fewest  and  the  farthest 

Of  all  we  know  go  not  beyond  themselves. 

No,  Gawaine,  you  are  not  the. cause  of  this; 

And  I  have  many  doubts  if  all  you  said, 

Or  in  your  lightness  may  have  left  unsaid, 

Would    have    unarmed    the    Queen.     The    Queen    was 

there."— 

Gawaine  looked  up,  and  then  looked  down  again: 
"Good  God,  if  I  had  only  said — said  something!" 

"Say  nothing  now,  Gawaine."    Bedivere  sighed, 

And  shook  his  head:    "Morning  is  not  in  the  west. 

The  sun  is  rising  and  the  King  is  coming; 

Now  you  may  hear  him  in  the  corridor, 

Like  a  sick  landlord  shuffling  to  the  light 

For  one  last  look-out  on  his  mortgaged  hills. 

But  hills  and  valleys  are  not  what  he  sees; 

He  sees  with  us  the  fire — the  sign — the  law. 

The  King  that  is  the  father  of  the  law 

Is  weaker  than  his  child,  except  he  slay  it. 
[Not  long  ago,  Gawaine,  I  had  a  dream 
I  Of  a  sword  over  kings,  and  of  a  world 
\  Without  them." — "Dreams,  dreams." — "Hush,  Gawaine." 

King  Arthur 

Came  slowly  on  till  in  the  darkened  entrance 
He  stared  and  shivered  like  a  sleep-walker, 
Brought  suddenly  awake  where  a  cliff's  edge 
Is  all  he  sees  between  another  step 
And  his  annihilation.     Bedivere  rose, 
And  Gawaine  rose;  and  with  instinctive  arms 
They  partly  guided,  partly  carried  him, 
To  the  King's  chair. 

389 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"I  thank  you,  gentlemen, 
Though  I  am  not  so  shaken,  I  dare  say, 
As  you  would  have  me.     This  is  not  the  hour 
When  kings  who  do  not  sleep  are  at  their  best; 
And  had  I  slept  this  night  that  now  is  over, 
No  man  should  ever  call  me  King  again." 
He  pulled  his  heavy  robe  around  him  closer, 
And  laid  upon  his  forehead  a  cold  hand 
That  came  down  warm  and  wet.    "You,  Bedivere, 
And  you,  Gawaine,  are  shaken  with  events 
Incredible  yesterday, — but  kings  are  men. 
Take  off  their  crowns  and  tear  away  their  colors 
And  let  them  see  with  my  eyes  what  I  see — 
Yes,  they  are  men,  indeed !    If  there's  a  slave 
In  Britain  with  a  reptile  at  his  heart 
Like  mine  that  with  his  claws  of  ice  and  fire 
Tears  out  of  me  the  fevered  roots  of  mercy, 
Find  him,  and  I  will  make  a  king  of  him! 
And  then,  so  that  his  happiness  may  swell 
Tenfold,  I'll  sift  the  beauty  of  all  courts 
And  capitals,  to  fetch  the  fairest  woman 
That  evil  has  in  hiding;  after  that, 
That  he  may  know  the  sovran  one  man  living 
To  be  his  friend,  I'll  prune  all  chivalry 
To  one  sure  knight.    In  this  wise  our  new  king 
Will  have  his  queen  to  love,  as  I  had  mine, — 
His  friend  that  he  may  trust,  as  I  had  mine, — 
And  he  will  be  as  gay,  if  all  goes  well, 
As  I  have  been :  as  fortunate  in  his  love, 
And  in  his  friend  as  fortunate — as  I  am ! 
And  what  am  I  ?  .  .  .  And  what  are  you — you  two  I 
If  you  are  men,  why  don't  you  say  I'm  dreaming? 
I  know  men  when  I  see  them,  I  know  daylight; 
And  I  see  now  the  gray  shine  of  our  dreams. 
I  tell  you  I'm  asleep  and  in  my  bed!  .  .  . 
390 


LANCELOT 

But  no — no  ...  I  remember.     You  are  men. 

You  are  no  dreams — but  God,  God,  if  you  were! 

If  I  were  strong  enough  to  make  you  vanish 

And  have  you  back  again  with  yesterday — 

Before  I  lent  myself  to  that  false  hunting, 

Which  yet  may  stalk  the  hours  of  many  more 

Than  Lancelot's  unhappy  twelve  who  died, — 

With  a  misguided  Colgrevance  to  lead  them, 

And  Agravaine  to  follow  and  fall  next, — 

Then  should  I  know  at  last  that  I  was  King, 

And  I  should  then  be  King.     But  kings  are  men, 

And  I  have  gleaned  enough  these  two  years  gone 

To  know  that  queens  are  women.    Merlin  told  me: 

'The  love  that  never  was.'     Two  years  ago 

He  told  me  that :     'The  love  that  never  was !' 

I  saw — but  I  saw  nothing.     Like  the  bird 

That  hides  his  head,  I  made  myself  see  nothing. 

But  yesterday  I  saw — and  I  saw  fire. 

I  think  I  saw  it  first  in  Modred's  eyes; 

Yet  he  said  only  truth — and  fire  is  right. 

It  is — it  must  be  fire.     The  law  says  fire. 

And  I,  the  King  who  made  the  law,  say  fire! 

What  have  I  done — what  folly  have  I  said, 

Since  I  came  here,  of  dreaming?    Dreaming?    Ha! 

I  wonder  if  the  Queen  and  Lancelot 

Are   dreaming!  .  .  .  Lancelot!     Have   they   found   him 

yet? 

He  slashed  a  way  into  the  outer  night — 
Somewhere  with  Bors.    We'll  have  him  here  anon, 
And  we  shall  feed  him  also  to  the  fire. 
There  are  too  many  faggots  lying  cold 
That  might  as  well  be  cleansing,  for  our  good, 
A  few  deferred  infections  of  our  state 
That  honor  should  no  longer  look  upon. 
Thank  heaven,  I  man  my  drifting  wits  again! 
391 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Gawaine,  your  brothers,  Gareth  and  Gaheris, 

Are  by  our  royal  order  there  to  see 

And  to  report.     They  went  unwillingly, 

For  they  are  new  to  law  and  young  to  justice; 

But  what  they  are  to  see  will  harden  them 

With  wholesome  admiration  of  a  realm 

Where  treason's  end  is  ashes.    Ashes.    Ashes! 

Itfow  this  is  better.    I  am  King  again. 

Forget,  I  pray,  my  drowsy  temporizing, 

For  I  was  not  then  properly  awake.  .  .  . 

What?    Hark!    Whose  crass  insanity  is  that! 

If  I  be  King,  go  find  the  fellow  and  hang  him 

Who  beats  into  the  morning  on  that  bell 

Before  there  is  a  morning !    This  is  dawn ! 

What!    Bedivere?    Gawaine?    You  shake  your  heads? 

I  tell  you  this  is  dawn!  .  .  .  What  have  I  done? 

What  have  I  said  so  lately  that  I  flinch 

To  think  on!    What  have  I  sent  those  boys_to  see? 

I'll  put  clouts  on  my  eyes,  and  I'll  not  see  it! 

Her  face,  and  hands,  and  little  small  white  feet, 

And  all  her  shining  hair  and  her  warm  body — 

No — for  the  love  of  God,  no ! — it's  alive ! 

She's  all  alive,  and  they  are  burning  her — 

The  Queen — the  love — the  love  that  never  was! 

Gawaine!    Bedivere!     Gawaine! — Where  is  Gawaine! 

Is  he  there  in  the  shadow?    Is  he  dead? 

Are  we  all  dead?    Are  we  in  hell? — Gawaine!  .  .  . 

I  cannot  see  her  now  in  the  smoke.    Her  eyes 

Are  what  I  see — and  her  white  body  is  burning! 

She  never  did  enough  to  make  me  see  her 

Like  that — to  make  her  look  at  me  like  that! 

There's  not  room  in  the  world  for  so  much  evil 

As  I  see  clamoring  in  her  poor  white  face 

For  pity.    Pity  her,  God !    God !  .  .  .  Lancelot !" 


392 


LANCELOT 


GAWAINE,  his  body  trembling  and  his  heart 

Pounding  as  if  he  were  a  boy  in  battle, 

Sat  crouched  as  far  away  from  everything 

As  walls  would  give  him  distance.    Bedivere 

Stood  like  a  man  of  stone  with  folded  arms, 

And  wept  in  stony  silence.    The  King  moved 

His  pallid  lips  and  uttered  fitfully 

Low  fragments  of  a  prayer  that  was  half  sad, 

Half  savage,  and  was  ended  in  a  crash 

Of  distant  sound  that  anguish  lifted  near 

To  those  who  heard  it.     Gawaine  sprang  again 

To  the  same  casement  where  the  towers  and  roofs 

Had  glimmered  faintly  a  long  hour  ago, 

But  saw  no  terrors  yet — though  now  he  heard 

A  fiercer  discord  than  allegiance  rings 

To  rouse  a  mourning  city :  blows,  groans,  cries, 

Loud  iron  struck  on  iron,  horses  trampling, 

Death-yells  and  imprecations,  and  at  last 

A  moaning  silence.     Then   a  murmuring 

Of  eager  fearfulness,  which  had  a  note 

Of  exultation  and  astonishment, 

Came  nearer,  till  a  tumult  of  hard  feet 

Filled  the  long  corridor  where  late  the  King 

Had  made  a  softer  progress. 

"Well  then,  Lucan," 
The  King  said,  urging  an  indignity 
To  qualify  suspense :     "For  what  arrears 
Of  grace  are  we  in  debt  for  this  attention? 
Why  all  this  early  stirring  of  our  sentries, 
And  their  somewhat  unseasoned  innovation, 
To  bring  you  at  this  unappointed  hour? 
393 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Are  we  at  war  with  someone  or  another, 
Without  our  sanction  or  intelligence? 
Are  Lucius  and  the  Romans  here  to  greet  us, 
Or  was  it  Lucius  we  saw  dead?" 

Sir  Lucan 

Bowed  humbly  in  amazed  acknowledgment 
Of  his  intrusion,  meanwhile  having  scanned 
What  three  grief -harrowed  faces  were  revealing: 
"Praise  God,  sir,  there  are  tears  in  the  King's  eyes, 
And  in  his  friends'.    Having  regarded  them, 
And  having  ventured  an  abrupt  appraisal 
Of  what  I  translate.  .  .  ." 

"Lucan,"  the  King  said, 
"No  matter  what  procedure  or  persuasion 
Gave  you  an  entrance — tell  us  what  it  is 
That  you  have  come  to  tell  us,  and  no  more. 
There  was  a  most  uncivil  sound  abroad 
Before  you  came.     Who  riots  in  the  city?" 

"Sir,  will  your  patience  with  a  clement  ear, 
Attend  the  confirmation  of  events, 
I  will,  with  all  available  precision, 
Say  what  this  morning  has  inaugurated. 
No  preface  or  prolonged  exordium 
Need  aggravate  the  narrative,  I  venture. 
The  man  of  God,  requiring  of  the  Queen 
A  last  assoiling  prayer  for  her  salvation, 
Heard  what  none  else  did  hear  save  God  the  Father. 
Then  a  great  hush  descended  on  a  scene 
Where  stronger  men  than  I  fell  on  their  knees, 
And  wet  with  tears  their  mail  of  shining  iron 
That  soon  was  to  be  cleft  unconscionably 
Beneath  a  blast  of  anguish  as  intense 
And  fabulous  in  ardor  and  effect 
394 


LANCELOT 

As  Jove's  is  in  his  lightning.     To  be  short, 

They  led  the  Queen — and  she  went  bravely  to  it, 

Or  so  she  was  configured  in  the  picture — 

A  brief  way  more;  and  we  who  did  see  that, 

Believed  we  saw  the  last  of  all  her  sharing     \ 

In  this  conglomerate  and  perplexed  existence^ 

But  no — and  here  the  prodigy  comes  in — 

The  penal  flame  had  hardly  bit  the  faggot, 

When,  like  an  onslaught  out  of  Erebus, 

There  came  a  crash  of  horses,  and  a  flash 

Of  axes,  and  a  hewing  down  of  heroes, 

Not  like  to  any  in  its  harsh,  profound, 

Unholy,  and  uneven  execution. 

I  felt  the  breath  of  one  horse  on  my  neck, 

And  of  a  sword  that  all  but  left  a  chasm 

Where  still,  praise  be  to  God,  I  have  intact 

A  face,  if  not  a  fair  one.    I  achieved 

My  flight,  I  trust,  with  honorable  zeal, 

Not  having  arms,  or  mail,  or  preservation 

In  any  phase  of  necessary  iron. 

I  found  a  refuge;  and  there  saw  the  Queen, 

All  white,  and  in  a  swound  of  woe  uplifted 

By  Lionel,  while  a  dozen  fought  about  him, 

And  Lancelot,  who  seized  her  while  he  struck, 

And  with  his  insane  army  galloped  away, 

Before  the  living,  whom  he  left  amazed, 

Were  sure  they  were  alive  among  the  dead. 

Not  even  in  the  legendary  mist 

Of  wars  that  none  today  may  verify, 

Did  ever  men  annihilate  their  kind 

With  a  more  vicious  inhumanity, 

Or  a  more  skilful  frenzy.     Lancelot 

And  all  his  heated  adjuncts  are  by  now 

Too  far,  I  fear,  for  such  immediate 

Reprisal  as  your  majesty  perchance  .  .  ." 

395 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"0'  God's  name,  Lucan,"  the  King  cried,  "be  still!" 
He  gripped  with  either  sodden  hand  an  arm 
Of  his  unyielding  chair,  while  his  eyes  blazed 
In  anger,  wonder,  and  fierce  hesitation. 
Then  with  a  sigh  that  may  have  told  unheard 
Of  an  unwilling  gratitude,  he  gazed 
Upon  his  friends  who  gazed  again  at  him ; 
But  neither  King  nor  friend  said  anything 
Until  the  King  turned  once  more  to  Sir  Lucan: 
"Be  still,  or  publish  with  a  shorter  tongue 
The  names  of  our  companions  who  are  dead. 
Well,  were  you  there?    Or  did  you  run  so  fast 
That  you  were  never  there?    You  must  have  eyes, 
Or  you  could  not  have  run  to  find  us  here." 


Then  Lucan,  with  a  melancholy  glance 
At  Gawaine,  who  stood  glaring  his  impatience, 
Addressed  again  the  King:     "I  will  be  short,  sir; 
Too  brief  to  measure  with  finality 
The  scope  of  what  I  saw  with  indistinct 
Amazement  and  incredulous  concern. 
Sir  Tor,  Sir  Griflet,  and  Sir  Aglovale 
Are  dead.    Sir  Gillimer,  he  is  dead.    Sir — Sir — 
But  should  a  living  error  be  detailed 
In  my  account,  how  should  I  meet  your  wrath 
For  such  a  false  addition  to  your  sorrow?" 
He  turned  again  to  Gawaine,  who  shook  now 
As  if  the  fear  in  him  were  more  than  fury. — 
The  King,  observing  Gawaine,  beat  his  foot 
In  fearful  hesitancy  on  the  floor: 
"No,  Lucan;  if  so  kind  an  error  lives 
In  your  dead  record,  you  need  have  no  fear. 
My  sorrow  has  already,  in  the  weight 
Of  this  you  tell,  too  gross  a  task  for  that." 
396 


LANCELOT 

"Then  I  must  offer  you  cold  naked  words, 
Without  the  covering  warmth  of  even  one 
Forlorn  alternative,"  said  Lucan,  slowly: 
"Sir  Gareth,  and  Sir  Gaheris — are  dead." 

The  rage  of  a  fulfilled  expectancy, 

Long  tortured  on  a  rack  of  endless  moments, 

Flashed  out  of  Gawaine's  overflowing  eyes 

While  he  flew  forward,  seizing  Lucan's  arms, 

And  hurled  him  while  he  held  him. — "Stop,  Gawaine," 

The  King  said  grimly.     "Now  is  no  time  for  that. 

If  Lucan,  in  a  too  bewildered  heat 

Of  observation  or  sad  reckoning, 

Has  added  life  to  death,  our  joy  therefor 

Will  be  the  larger.    You  have  lost  yourself." 

"More  than  myself  it  is  that  I  have  lost," 
Gawaine  said,  with  a  choking  voice  that  faltered: 
"Forgive  me,  Lucan;  I  was  a  little  mad. 
Gareth  ? — and  Gaheris  ?    Do  you  say  their  names, 
And  then  say  they  are  dead!     They  had  no  arms — 
No  armor.     They  were  like  you — and  you  live ! 
Why  do  you  live  when  they  are  dead  1    You  ran, 
You  say?    Well,  why  were  they  not  running — 
If  they  ran  only  for  a  pike  to  die  with? 
I  knew  my  brothers,  and  I  know  your  tale 
Is  not  all  told.     Gareth? — and  Gaheris? 
Would  they  stay  there  to  die  like  silly  children  ? 
Did  they  believe  the  King  would  have  them  die 
For  nothing?     There  are  dregs  of  reason,  Lucan, 
In  lunacy  itself.    My  brothers,  Lucan, 
Were  murdered  like  two  dogs.    Who  murdered  them?" 

Lucan  looked  helplessly  at  Bedivere, 
The  changeless  man  of  stone,  and  then  at  Gawaine : 
397 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"I  cannot  use  the  word  that  you  have  used, 

Though  yours  must  have  an  answer.    Your  two  brothers 

Would  not  have  squandered  or  destroyed  themselves 

In  a  vain  show  of  action.     I  pronounce  it, 

If  only  for  their  known  obedience 

To  the  King's  instant  wish.    Know  then  your  brothers 

Were  caught  and  crowded,  this  way  and  then  that, 

With  men  and  horses  raging  all  around  them; 

And  there  were  swords  and  axes  everywhere 

That  heads  of  men  were.    Armored  and  unarmored, 

They  knew  the  iron  alike.    In  so  great  press, 

Discrimination  would  have  had  no  pause 

To  name  itself;  and  therefore  Lancelot 

Saw  not — or  seeing,  he  may  have  seen  too  late — 

On  whom  his  axes  fell." 

<rWhy  do  you  flood 

The  name  of  Lancelot  with  words  enough 
To  drown  him  and  his  army — and  his  axes !  .  .  . 
His  axes? — or  his  axe!    Which,  Lucan?    Speak! 
Speak,  or  by  God  you'll  never  speak  again!  .  .  . 
Forgive  me,  Lucan ;  I  was  a  little  mad. 
You,  sir,  forgive  me;  and  you,  Bedivere. 
There  are  too  many  currents  in  this  ocean 
Where  I'm  adrift,  and  I  see  no  land  yet. 
Men  tell  of  a  great  whirlpool  in  the  north 
Where  ships  go  round  until  the  men  aboard 
Go  dizzy,  and  are  dizzy  when  they're  drowning. 
But  whether  I'm  to  drown  or  find  the  shore, 
There  is  one  thing — and  only  one  thing  now — 
For  me  to  know.  .  .  .  His  axes  ?  or  his  axe ! 
Say,  Lucan,  or  I — O  Lucan,  speak — speak — speak! 
Lucan,  did  Lancelot  kill  my  two  brothers?" 

"I  say  again  that  in  all  human  chance 
He  knew  not  upon  whom  his  axe  was  falling." 
398 


LANCELOT 

"So!     Then  it  was  his  axe  and  not  his  axes. 

It  was  his  hell-begotten  self  that  did  it, 

And  it  was  not  his  men.     Gareth !     Gaheris ! 

You  came  too  soon.     There  was  no  place  for  you 

Where  there  was  Lancelot.    My  folly  it  was, 

Not  yours,  to  take  for  true  the  inhuman  glamour 

Of  his  high-shining  fame  for  that  which  most 

Was  not  the  man.    The_  truth  we  see  too  late 

Hides  half  its  evil  in  our  stupidity; 

And  we  gape  while  we  groan  for  what  we  learn. 

An  hour  ago  and  I  was  all  but  eager 

To  mourn  with  Bedivere  for  grief  I  had 

That  I  did  not  say  something  to  this  villain — 

To  this  true,  gracious,  murderous  friend  of  mine — 

To  comfort  him  and  urge  him  out  of  this, 

While  I  was  half  a  fool  and  half  believed 

That  he  was  going.    Well,  there  is  this  to  say : 

The  world  that  has  him  will  not  have  him  long. 

You  see  how  calm  I  am,  now  I  have  said  it? 

And  you,  sir,  do  you  see  how  calm  I  am? 

And  it  was  I  who  told  of  shipwrecks — whirlpools — 

Drowning!    I  must  have  been  a  little  mad, 

Not  having  occupation.    Now  I  have  one. 

And  I  have  now  a  tongue  as  many-phrased 

As  Lucan's.    Gauge  it,  Lucan,  if  you  will; 

Or  take  my  word.    It's  all  one  thing  to  me — 

All  one,  all  one !     There's  only  one  thing  left  .  .  . 

Gareth  and  Gaheris!     Gareth!  .  .  .  Lancelot!" 

<fLook,  Bedivere,"  the  King  said :  "look  to  Gawaine. 
Now  lead  him,  you  and  Lucan,  to  a  chair — 
As  you  and  Gawaine  led  me  to  this  chair 
Where  I  am  sitting.     We  may  all  be  led, 
If  there  be  coming  on  for  Camelot 
Another  day  like  this.     Now  leave  me  here, 
399 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Alone  with  Gawaine.    When  a  strong  man  goes 
Like  that,  it  makes  him  sick  to  see  his  friends 
Around  him.    Leave  us,  and  go  now.    Sometimes 
I'll  scarce  remember  that  he's  not  my  son, 
So  near  he  seems.    I  thank  you,  gentlemen." 

The  King,  alone  with  Gawaine,  who  said  nothing, 
Had  yet  no  heart  for  news  of  Lancelot 
Or  Guinevere.    He  saw  them  on  their  way 
To  Joyous  Gard,  where  Tristram  and  Isolt 
Had  islanded  of  old  their  stolen  love, 
While  Mark  of  Cornwall  entertained  a  vengeance 
Envisaging  an  ending  of  all  that; 
And  he  could  see  the  two  of  them  together 
As  Mark  had  seen  Isolt  there,  and  her  knight, — 
Though  not,  like  Mark,  with  murder  in  his  eyes. 
He  saw  them  as  if  they  were  there  already, 
And  he  were  a  lost  thought  long  out  of  mind; 
He  saw  them  lying  in  each  other's  arms, 
Oblivious  of  the  living  and  the  dead 
They  left  in  Camelot.    Then  he  saw  the  dead 
That  lay  so  quiet  outside  the  city  walls, 
And  wept,  and  left  the  Queen  to  Lancelot — 
Or  would  have  left  her,  had  the  will  been  his 
To  leave  or  take;  for  now  he  could  acknowledge 
An  inrush  of  a  desolate  thanksgiving 
That  she,  with  death  around  her,  had  not  died. 
The  vision  of  a  peace  that  humbled  him, 
And  yet  might  save  the  world  that  he  had  won, 
Came  slowly  into  view  like  something  soft 
And  ominous  on  all-fours,  without  a  spirit 
To  make  it  stand  upright.     "Better  be  that, 
Even  that,  than  blood,"  he  sighed,  "if  that  be  peace." 
But  looking  down  on  Gawaine,  who  said  nothing, 
He  shook  his  head:     "The  King  has  had  his  world, 
400 


LANCELOT 

And  he  shall  have  110  peace.    With  Modred  here, 

And  Agravaine  with  Gareth,  who  is  dead 

With  Gaheris,  Gawaine  will  have  no  peace. 

Gawaine  or  Modred — Gawaine  with  his  hate, 

Or  Modred  with  his  anger  for  his  birth, 

And  the  black  malady  of  his  ambition — 

Will  make  of  my  Round  Table,  where  was  drawn 

The  circle  of  a  world,  a  thing  of  wreck 

And  yesterday — a  furniture  forgotten; 

And  I,  who  loved  the  world  as  Merlin  did, 

May  lose  it  as  he  lost  it,  for  a  love 

That  was  not  peace,  and  therefore  was  not  love." 

VI 

THE  dark  of  Modred's  hour  not  yet  availing, 
Gawaine  it  was  who  gave  the  King  no  peace; 
Gawaine  it  was  who  goaded  him  and  drove  him 
To  Joyous  Gard,  where  now  for  long  his  army, 
Disheartened  with  unprofitable  slaughter, 
Fought  for  their  weary  King  and  wearily 
Died  fighting.     Only  Gawaine's  hate  it  was 
That  held  the  King's  knights  and  his  warrior  slaves 
Close-hived  in  exile,  dreaming  of  old  scenes 
Where  Sorrow,  and  her  demon  sister  Fear, 
Now  shared  the  dusty  food  of  loneliness, 
From  Orkney  to  Cornwall.     There  was  no  peace, 
Nor  could  there  be,  so  Gawaine  told  the  King, 
And  so  the  King  in  anguish  told  himself, 
Until  there  was  an  end  of  one  of  them — 
Of  Gawaine  or  the  King,  or  Lancelot, 
Who  might  have  had  an  end,  as  either  knew, 
Long  since  of  Arthur  and  of  Gawaine  with  him. 
One  evening  in  the  moonlight  Lancelot 
And  Bors,  his  kinsman,  and  the  loyalest, 
401 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

If  least  assured,  of  all  who  followed  him, 
Sat  gazing  from  an  ivy-cornered  casement 
In  angry  silence  upon  Arthur's  horde, 
Who  in  the  silver  distance,  without  sound, 
Were  dimly  burying  dead  men.     Sir  Bors, 
Eeiterating  vainly  what  was  told 
As  wholesome  hearing  for  unhearing  ears, 
Said  now  to  Lancelot :     "And  though  it  be 
For  no  more  now  than  always,  let  me  speak : 
You  have  a  pity  for  the  King,  you  say, 
That  is  not  hate;  and  for  Gawaine  you  have 
A  grief  that  is  not  hate.    Pity  and  grief  1 
And  the  Queen  all  but  shrieking  out  her  soul 
That  morning  when  we  snatched  her  from  the  faggots 
That  were  already  crackling  when  we  came! 
Why,  Lancelot,  if  in  you  is  an  answer, 
Have  you  so  vast  a  charity  for  the  King, 
And  so  enlarged  a  grief  for  his  gay  nephew, 
Whose  tireless  hate  for  you  has  only  one 
Disastrous  appetite?    You  know  for  what — 
For  your  slow  blood.    I  knew  you,  Lancelot, 
When  all  this  would  have  been  a  merry  fable 
For  smiling  men  to  yawn  at  and  forget, 
As  they  forget  their  physic.    Pity  and  grief 
Are  in  your  eyes.    I  see  them  well  enough; 
And  I  saw  once  with  you,  in  a  far  land, 
The  glimmering  of  a  Light  that  you  saw  nearer — 
Too  near  for  yoifr  salvation  or  advantage, 
If  you  be  what  you  seem.    What  I  saw  then 
Made  life  a  wilder  mystery  than  ever, 
And  earth  a  new  illusion.    You,  maybe, 
Saw  pity  and  grief.    What  I  saw  was  a  Gleam;      I 
To  fight  for  or  to  die  for — till  we  know  V/ 

Too  much  to  fight  or  die.    Tonight  you  turn 
A  page  whereon  your  deeds  are  to  engross 
402 


LANCELOT 

Inexorably  their  story  of  tomorrow; 

And  then  tomorrow.    How  many  of  these  tomorrows 

Are  coming  to  ask  unanswered  why  this  war 

Was  fought  and  fought  for  the  vain  sake  of  slaughter? 

Why  carve  a  compost  of  a  multitude, 

When  only  two,  discriminate^  despatched, 

Would  sum  the  end  of  what  you  know  is  ending 

And  leave  to  you  the  scorch  of  no  more  blood 

Upon  your  blistered  soul?     The  Light  you  saw 

Was  not  for  this  poor  crumbling  realm  of  Arthur, 

Nor  more  for  Rome;  but  for  another  state 

That  shall  be  neither  Rome  nor  Camelot, 

Nor  one  that  we  may  name.    Why  longer,  then, 

Are  you  and  Gawaine  to  anoint  with  war, 

That  even  in  hell  would  be  superfluous, 

A  reign  already  dying,  and  ripe  to  die? 

I  leave  you  to  your  last  interpretation 

Of  what  may  be  the  pleasure  of  your  madness." 

Meanwhile  a  mist  was  hiding  the  dim  work 
Of  Arthur's  men;  and  like  another  mist, 
All  gray,  came  Guinevere  to  Lancelot, 
Whom  Bors  had  left,  not  having  had  of  him 
The  largess  of  a  word.    She  laid  her  hands 
Upon  his  hair,  vexing  him  to  brief  speech: 
"And  you — are  you  like  Bors  ?" 

"I  may  be  so," 

She  said;  and  she  saw  faintly  where  she  gazed, 
Like   distant  insects   of  a   shadowy  world, 
Dim  clusters  here  and  there  of  shadowy  men 
Whose  occupation  was  her  long  abhorrence: 
"If  he  came  here  and  went  away  again, 
And  all  for  nothing,  I  may  be  like  Bors. 
Be  glad,  at  least,  that  I  am  not  like  Mark 
403 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Of  Cprnwall,  who  stood  once  behind  a  man 

And  slew  him  without  saying  he  was  there. 

Not  Arthur,  I  believe,  nor  yet  Gawaine, 

Would  have  done  quite  like  that;  though  only  God 

May  say  what  there's  to  come  before  this  war 

Shall  have  an  end — unless  you  are  to  see, 

As  I  have  seen  so  long,  a  way  to  end  it." 

He  frowned,  and  watched  again  the  coming  mist 
That  hid  with  a  cold  veil  of  augury 
The  stillness  of  an  empire  that  was  dying: 
"And  are  you  here  to  say  that  if  I  kill 
Gawaine  and  Arthur  we  shall  both  be  happy?" 

"Is  there  still  such  a  word  as  happiness? 
I  come  to  tell  you  nothing,  Lancelot, 
That  folly  and  waste  have  not  already  told  you. 
Were  you  another  man  than  Lancelot, 
I  might  say  folly  and  fear.     But  no, — no  fear, 
As  I  know  fear,  was  yet  composed  and  wrought,  )    . 
By  man,  for  your  delay  and  your  undoing. 
God  knows  how  cruelly  and  how  truly  now 
You  might  say,  that  of  all  who  breathe  and  suffer 
There  may  be  others  who  are  not  so  near 
To  you  as  I  am,  and  so  might  say  better 
What  I  say  only  with  a  tongue  not  apt 
Or  guarded  for  much  argument.    A  woman, 
As  men  have  known  since  Adam  heard  the  first 
Of  Eve's  interpreting  of  how  it  was 
In  Paradise,  may  see  but  one  side  only — 
Where  maybe  there  are  two,  to  say  no  more. 
Yet  here,  for  you  and  me,  and  so  for  all 
Caught  with  us  in  this  lamentable  net, 
I  see  but  one  deliverance:  I  see  none, 
Unless  you  cut  for  us  a  clean  way  out, 
404 


So  rending  these  hate-woven  webs  of  horror 
Before  they  mesh  the  world.     And  if  the  world 
Or  Arthur's  name  be  now  a  dying  glory, 
Why  bleed  it  for  the  sparing  of  a  man 
Who  hates  you,  and  a  King  that  hates  himself? 
If  war  be  war — and  I  make  only  blood 
Of  your  red  writing — why  dishonor  Time 
For  torture  longer  drawn  in  your  slow  game 
Of  empty  slaughter?    Tomorrow  it  will  be 
The  King's  move,  I  suppose,  and  we  shall  have 
One  more  magnificent  waste  of  nameless  pawns, 
And  of  a  few  more  knights.     God,  how  you  love 
This  game! — to  make  so  loud  a  shambles  of  it, 
When  you  have  only  twice  to  lift  your  finger 
To  signal  peace,  and  give  to  this  poor  drenched 
And  clotted  earth  a  time  to  heal  itself. 
Twice  over  I  say  to  you,  if  war  be  war, 
Why  play  with  it?    Why  look  a  thousand  ways 
Away  from  what  it  is,  only  to  find 
A  few  stale  memories  left  that  would  requite 
Your  tears  with  your  destruction?    Tears,  I  say, 
For  I  have  seen  your  tears;  I  see  them  now, 
Although  the  moon  is  dimmer  than  it  was 
Before  I  came.     I  wonder  if  I  dimmed  it. 
I  wonder  if  I  brought  this  fog  here  with  me 
To  make  you  chillier  even  than  you  are 
When  I  am  not  so  near  you.  .  .  .  Lancelot, 
There  must  be  glimmering  yet  somewhere  within  you 
The  last  spark  of  a  little  willingness 
To  tell  me  why  it  is  this  war  goes  on. 
Once  I  believed  you  told  me  everything; 
And  what  you  may  have  hidden  was  no  matter, 
For  what  you  told  was  all  I  needed  then. 
i  But  crumbs  that  are  a  festival  for  joy 
'  Make  a  dry  fare  for  sorrow ;  and  the  few 
405 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Spared  words  that  were  enough  to  nourish  faith, 
Are  for  our  lonely  fears  a  frugal  poison. 
So,  Lancelot,  if  only  to  bring  back 
For  once  the  ghost  of  a  forgotten  mercy, 
Say  now,  even  though  you  strike  me  to  the  floor 
When  you  have  said  it,  for  what  untold  end 
All  this  goes  on.     Am  I  not  anything  now? 
Is  Gawaine,  who  would  feed  you  to  wild  swine, 
And  laugh  to  see  them  tear  you,  more  than  I  am  ? 
Is  Arthur,  at  whose  word  I  was  dragged  out 
To  wear  for  you  the  fiery  crown  itself 
Of  human  torture,  more  to  you  than  I  am  ? 
Am  I,  because  you  saw  death  touch  me  once, 
Too  gross  a  trifle  to  be  longer  prized? 
Not  many  days  ago,  when  you  lay  hurt 
And  aching  on  your  bed,  and  I  cried  out 
Aloud  on  heaven  that  I  should  bring  you  there, 
You  said  you  would  have  paid  the  price  of  hell 
To  save  me  that  foul  morning  from  the  fire. 
You  paid  enough:  yet  when  you  told  me  that, 
With  death  going  on  outside  the  while  you  said  it, 
I  heard  the  woman  in  me  asking  why. 
Nor  do  I  wholly  find  an  answer  now 
In  any  shine  of  any  far-off  Light 
You  may  have  seen.    Knowing  the  world,  you  know 
How  surely  and  how  indifferently  that  Light 
Shall  burn  through  many  a  war  that  is  to  be, 
To  which  this  war  were  no  more  than  a  smear 
On  circumstance.     The  world  has  not  begun. 
The  Light  you  saw  was  not  the  Light  of  Rome, 
Or  Time,  though  you  seem  battling  here  for  time, 
While  you  are  still  at  war  with  Arthur's  host 
And  Gawaine's  hate.    How  many  thousand  men 
Are  going  to  their  death  before  Gawaine 
And  Arthur  go  to  theirs — and  I  to  mine?" 
406 


LANCELOT 

Lancelot,  looking  off  into  the  fog, 
In  which  his  fancy  found  the  watery  light 
Of  a  dissolving  moon,  sighed  without  hope 
Of  saying  what  the  Queen  would  have  him  say: 
"I  fear,  my  lady,  my  fair  nephew  Bors, 
Whose  tongue  affords  a  random  wealth  of  sound, 
May  lately  have  been  scattering  on  the  air 
For  you  a  music  less  oracular 
Than  to  your  liking.  .  .  .  Say,  then,  you  had  split 
The  uncovered  heads  of  two  men  with  an  axe, 
Not  knowing  whose  heads — if  that's  a  palliation — 
And  seen  their  brains  fly  out  and  splash  the  ground 
As  they  were  common  offal,  and  then  learned 
That  you  had  butchered  Gaheris  and  Gareth — 
Gareth,  who  had  for  me  a  greater  love 
Than  any  that  has  ever  trod  the  ways 
Of  a  gross  world  that  early  would  have  crushed  him,- 
Even  you,  in  your  quick  fever  of  dispatch, 
Might  hesitate  before  you  drew  the  blood 
Of  him  that  was  their  brother,  and  my  friend. 
Yes,  he  was -more  my  friend,  was  I  to  know, 
Than  I  had  said  or  guessed;  for  it  was  Gawaine 
Who  gave  to  Bors  the  word  that  might  have  saved  us, 
And  Arthur's  fading  empire,  for  the  time 
Till  Modred  had  in  his  dark  wormy  way 
Crawled  into  light  again  with  a  new  ruin 
At  work  in  that  occult  snake's  brain  of  his. 
And  even  in  your  prompt  obliteration 
Of  Arthur  from  a  changing  world  that  rocks 
Itself  into  a  dizziness  around  him, 
A  moment  of  attendant  reminiscence 
Were  possible,  if  not  likely.    Had  he  made 
A  knight  of  you,  scrolling  your  name  with  his 
Among  the  first  of  men — and  in  his  love 
Inveterately  the  first — and  had  you  then 
407 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Betrayed  his  fame  and  honor  to  the  dust 

That  now  is  choking  him,  you  might  in  time — 

You  might,  I  say — to  my  degree  succumb. 

Forgive  me,  if  my  lean  words  are  for  yours 

Too  bare  an  answer,  and  ascribe  to  them 

No  tinge  of  allegation  or  reproach. 

What  I  said  once  to  you  I  said  for  ever — 

That  I  would  pay  the  price  of  hell  to  save  you. 

As  for  the  Light,  leave  that  for  me  alone; 

Or  leave  as  much  of  it  as  yet  for  me 

May  shine.    Should  I,  through  any  unforeseen 

Remote  effect  of  awkwardness  or  chance, 

Be  done  to  death  or  durance  by  the  King, 

I  leave  some  writing  wherein  I  beseech 

For  you  the  clemency  of  afterthought. 

Were  I  to  die  and  he  to  see  me  dead, 

My  living  prayer,  surviving  the  cold  hand 

That  wrote,  would  leave  you  in  his  larger  prudence, 

If  I  have  known  the  King,  free  and  secure 

To  bide  the  summoning  of  another  King 

More  great  than  Arthur.    But  all  this  is  language; 

And  I  know  more  than  words  have  yet  the  scope 

To  show  of  what's  to  come.    Go  now  to  rest; 

And  sleep,  if  there  be  sleep.    There  was  a  moon; 

And  now  there  is  no  sky  where  the  moon  was. 

Sometimes  I  wonder  if  this  be  the  world 

We  live  in,  or  the  world  that  lives  in  us." 

The  new  day,  with  a  cleansing  crash  of  rain 
That  washed  and  sluiced  the  soiled  and  hoof-torn  field 
Of  Joyous  Gard,  prepared  for  Lancelot 
And  his  wet  men  the  not  unwelcome  scene 
Of  a  drenched  emptiness  without  an  army. 
"Our  friend  the  foe  is  given  to  dry  fighting," 
Said  Lionel,  advancing  with  a  shrug, 
408 


LANCELOT 

To  Lancelot,  who  saw  beyond  the  rain. 

And  later  Lionel  said,  "What  fellows  are  they, 

Who  are  so  thirsty  for  their  morning  ride 

That  swimming  horses  would  have  hardly  time 

To  eat  before  they  swam?     You,  Lancelot, 

If  I  see  rather  better  than  a  blind  man, 

Are  waiting  on  three  pilgrims  who  must  love  you, 

To  voyage  a  flood  like  this.    No  friend  have  I, 

To  whisper  not  of  three,  on  whom  to  count 

For  such  a  loyal  wash.     The  King  himself 

Would  entertain  a  kindly  qualm  or  so, 

Before  he  suffered  such  a  burst  of  heaven 

To  splash  even  three  musicians." 

"Good  Lionel, 

I  thank  you,  but  you  need  afflict  your  fancy 
No  longer  for  my  sake.    For  these  who  come, 
If  I  be  not  immoderately  deceived, 
Are  bearing  with  tliem  the  white  flower  of  peace — 
Which  I  could  hope  might  never  parch  or  wither, 
Were  I  a  stranger  to  this  ravening  world 
Where  we  have  mostly  a  few  rags  and  tags 
Between  our  skins  and  those  that  wrap  the  flesh 
Of  less  familiar  brutes  we  feed  upon 
That  we  may  feed  the  more  on  one  another." 

"Well,  now  that  we  have  had  your  morning  grace 
Before  our  morning  meat,  pray  tell  to  me 
The  why  and  whence  of  this  anomalous 
Horse-riding  offspring  of  the  Fates.     Who  are  they?" 

"I  do  not  read  their  features  or  their  names; 
But  if  I  read  the  King,  they  are  from  Eome, 
Spurred  here  by  the  King's  prayer  for  no  delay; 
409 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  I  pray  God  aloud  that  I  say  true." 
And  after  a  long  watching,  neither  speaking, 
"You  do,"  said  Lionel;  "for  by  my  soul, 
I  see  no  other  than  my  lord  the  Bishop, 
Who  does  God's  holy  work  in  Rochester. 
Since  you  are  here,  you  may  as  well  abide  here, 
While  I  go  foraging." 

Now  in  the  gateway, 
The  Bishop,  who  rode  something  heavily, 
Was  glad  for  rest  though  grim  in  his  refusal 
At  once  of  entertainment  or  refection: 
"What  else  you  do,  Sir  Lancelot,  receive  me 
As  one  among  the  honest  when  I  say 
That  my  voluminous  thanks  were  less  by  cantos 
Than  my  damp  manner  feels.    Nay,  hear  my  voice: 
If  once  I'm  off  this  royal  animal, 
How  o'  God's  name  shall  I  get  on  again? 
Moreover,  the  King  waits.    With  your  accord, 
Sir  Lancelot,  I'll  dry  my  rainy  face, 
While  you  attend  what's  herein  written  down, 
In  language  of  portentous  brevity, 
For  the  King's  gracious  pleasure  and  for  yours, 
Whereof  the  burden  is  the  word  of  Rome, 
Requiring  your  deliverance  of  the  Queen 
Not  more  than  seven  days  hence.    The  King  returns 
Anon  to  Camelot;  and  I  go  with  him, 
Praise  God,  if  what  he  waits  now  is  your  will 
To  end  an  endless  war.    No  recrudescence, 
As  you  may  soon  remark,  of  what  is  past 
Awaits  the  Queen,  or  any  doubt  soever 
Of  the  King's  mercy.    Have  you  more  to  say 
Than  Rome  has  written,  or  do  I  perceive 
Your  tranquil  acquiescence?    Is  it  so? 
Then  be  it  so !    Venite.    Pax  vobiscum." 
410 


LANCELOT 

"To  end  an  endless  war  with  'pax  vobiscum' 

Would  seem  a  ready  schedule  for  a  bishop; 

Would  God  that  I  might  see  the  end  of  it!" 

Lancelot,  like  a  statue  in  the  gateway, 

Regarded  with  a  qualified  rejoicing 

The  fading  out  of  his  three  visitors 

Into  the  cold  and  swallowing  wall  of  storm 

Between  him  and  the  battle-wearied  King 

And  the  unwearying  hatred  of  Gawaine. 

To  Bors  his  nephew,  and  to  Lionel, 

He  glossed  a  tale  of  Roman  intercession, 

Knowing  that  for  a  time,  and  a  long  time, 

The  sweetest  fare  that  he  might  lay  before  them 

Would  hold  an  evil  taste  of  compromise. 

To  Guinevere,  who  questioned  him  at  noon 

Of  what  by  then  had  made  of  Joyous  Gard 

A  shaken  hive  of  legend-heavy  wonder, 

He  said  what  most  it  was  the  undying  Devil, 

Who  ruled  him  when  he  might,  would  have  him  say: 

"Your  confident  arrangement  of  the  board 

For  this  day's  game  was  notably  not  to  be; 

Today  was  not  for  the  King's  move  or  mine, 

But  for  the  Bishop's;  and  the  board  is  empty. 

The  words  that  I  have  waited  for  more  days 

Than  are  to  now  my  tallage  of  gray  hairs 

Have  come  at  last,  and  at  last  you  are  free. 

So,  for  a  time,  there  will  be  no  more  war; 

And  you  are  going  home  to  Camelot." 

"To  Camelot?"  .  .  . 

"To  Camelot."    But  his  words 
Were  said  for  no  queen's  hearing.     In  his  arms 
He  caught  her  when  she  fell;  and  in  his  arms 
He  carried  her  away.     The  word  of  Rome 
Was  in  the  rain.    There  was  no  other  sound. 
411 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


VLT 

All  day  the  rain  came  down  on  Joyous  Gard, 

Where  now  there  was  no  joy,  and  all  that  night 

The  rain  came  down.     Shut  in  for  none  to  find  him 

Where  an  unheeded  log-fire  fought  the  storm 

With  upward  swords  that  flashed  along  the  wall 

Faint  hieroglyphs  of  doom  not  his  to  read, 

Lancelot  found  a  refuge  where  at  last 

He  might  see  nothing.    Glad  for  sight  of  nothing, 

He  saw  no  more.    Now  and  again  he  buried 

A  lonely  thought  among  the  coals  and  ashes 

Outside  the  reaching  flame  and  left  it  there, 

Quite  as  he  left  outside  in  rainy  graves 

The  sacrificial  hundreds  who  had  filled  them. 

"They  died,  Gawaine,"  he  said,  "and  you  live  on, 

You  and  the  King,  as  if  there  were  no  dying; 

And  it  was  I,  Gawaine,  who  let  you  live — 

You  and  the  King.    For  what  more  length  of  time, 

I  wonder,  may  there  still  be  found  on  earth 

Foot-room  for  four  of  us  ?    We  are  too  many 

For  one  world,  Gawaine;  and  there  may  be  soon, 

For  one  or  other  of  us,  a  way  out. 

As  men  are  listed,  we  are  men  for  men 

To  fear;  and  I  fear  Modred  more  than  any. 

But  even  the  ghost  of  Modred  at  the  door — 

The  ghost  I  should  have  made  him — would  employ 

For  time  as  hard  as  this  a  louder  knuckle, 

Assuredly  now,  than  that.    And  I  would  see 

No  mortal  face  till  morning.  .  .  .  Well,  are  you  well 

Again  ?    Are  you  as  well  again  as  ever  ?" 

He  led  her  slowly  on  with  a  cold  show 
Of  care  that  was  less  heartening  for  the  Queen 
412 


LANCELOT 

Than  anger  would  have  been,  into  the  firelight, 

And  there  he  gave  her  cushions.     "Are  you  warm?" 

He  said;  and  she  said  nothing.     "Are  you  afraid?" 

He  said  again;  "are  you  still  afraid  of  Gawaine? 

As  often  as  you  think  of  him  and  hate  him, 

Remember  too  that  he  betrayed  his  brothers 

To  us  that  he  might  save  us.    Well,  he  saved  us; 

And  Rome,  whose  name  to  you  was  never  music, 

Saves  you  again,  with  heaven  alone  may  tell 

What  others  who  might  have  their  time  to  sleep 

In  earth  out  there,  with  the  rain  falling  on  them, 

And  with  no  more  to  fear  of  wars  tonight 

Than  you  need  fear  of  Gawaine  or  of  Arthur. 

The  way  before  you  is  a  safer  way 

For  you  to  follow  than  when  I  was  in  it. 

We  children  who  forget  the  whips  of  Time, 

To  live  within  the  hour,  are  slow  to  see 

That  all  such  hours  are  passing.     They  were  past 

When  you  came  here  with  me." 

She  looked  away, 

Seeming  to  read  the  firelight  on  the  walls 
Before  she  spoke:     "When  I  came  here  with  you, 
And  found  those  eyes  of  yours,  I  could  have  wished 
And  prayed  it  were  the  end  of  hours,  and  years. 
What  was  it  made  you  save  me  from  the  fire, 
If  only  out  of  memories  and  forebodings 
To  build  around  my  life  another  fire 
Of  slower  faggots  ?    If  you  had  let  me  die, 
Those  other  faggots  would  be  ashes  now, 
And  all  of  me  that  you  have  ever  loved 
Would  be  a  few  more  ashes.    If  I  read 
The  past  as  well  as  you  have  read  the  future 
You  need  say  nothing  of  ingratitude, 
For  I  say  only  lies.     My  soul,  of  course, 
413 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

It  was  you  loved.    You  told  me  so  yourself. 
And  that  same  precious  blue-veined  cream-white  soul 
Will  soon  be  safer,  if  I  understand  you, 
In  Camelot,  where  the  King  is,  than  elsewhere 
On  earth.    What  more,  in  faith,  have  I  to  ask 
Of  earth  or  heaven  than  that!    Although  I  fell 
When  you  said  Camelot,  are  you  to  know, 
Surely,  the  stroke  you  gave  me  then  was  not 
The  measure  itself  of  ecstasy?    We  women 
Are  such  adept  inveterates  in  our  swooning 
That  we  fall  down  for  joy  as  easily 
As  we  eat  one  another  to  show  our  love. 
Even  horses,  seeing  again  their  absent  masters, 
Have  wept  for  joy;  great  dogs  have  died  of  it." 
Having  said  as  much  as  that,  she  frowned  and  held 
Her  small  white  hands  out  for  the  fire  to  warm  them. 
Forward  she  leaned,  and  forward  her  thoughts  went — 
To  Camelot.    But  they  were  not  there  long, 
Her  thoughts ;  for  soon  she  flashed  her  eyes  again, 
And  he  found  in  them  what  he  wished  were  tears 
Of  angry  sorrow  for  what  she  had  said. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me?"  she  asked; 
And  all  her  old  incisiveness  came  back, 
With  a  new  thrust  of  malice,  which  he  felt 
And  feared.    "What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me? 
What  does  a  child  do  with  a  worn-out  doll? 
I  was  a  chil3  once;  and  I  had  a  father. 
He  was  a  king;  and,  having  royal  ways, 
He  made  a  queen  of  me — King  Arthur's  queen. 
And  if  that  happened,  once  upon  a  time, 
Why  may  it  not  as  well  be  happening  now 
That  I  am  not  a  queen?     Was  I  a  queen 
When  first  you  brought  me  here  with  one  torn  rag 
To  cover  me?    Was  I  overmuch  a  queen 
When  I  sat  up  at  last,  and  in  a  gear 
414 


LANCELOT 

That  would  have  made  a  bishop  dance  to  Cardiff 
To  see  me  wearing  it?    Was  I  Queen  then?" 

"You  were  the  Queen  of  Christendom,"  he  said, 

Not  smiling  at  her,  "whether  now  or  not 

You  deem  it  an  unchristian  exercise 

To  vilipend  the  wearing  of  the  vanished. 

The  women  may  have  reasoned,  insecurely, 

That  what  one  queen  had  worn  would  please  another. 

I  left  them  to  their  ingenuities." 

Once  more  he  frowned  away  a  threatening  smile, 
But  soon  forgot  the  memory  of  all  smiling 
While  he  gazed  on  the  glimmering  face  and  hair 
Of  Guinevere — the  glory  of  white  and  gold 
That  had  been  his,  and  were,  for  taking  of  it, 
Still  his,  to  cloud,  with  an  insidious  gleam 
Of  earth,  another  that  was  not  of  earth, 
And  so  to  make  of  him  a  thing  of  night — 
A  moth  between  a  window  and  a  star, 
Not  wholly  lured  by  one  or  led  by  the  other. 
The  more  he  gazed  upon  her  beauty  there, 
The  longer  was  he  living  in  two  kingdoms, 
Not  owning  in  his  heart  the  king  of  either, 
And  ruling  not  himself.     There  was  an  end 
Of  hours,  he  told  her  silent  face  again, 
In  silence.     On  the  morning  when  his  fury 
Wrenched  her  from  that  foul  fire  in  Camelot, 
Where  blood  paid  irretrievably  the  toll 
Of  her  release,  the  whips  of  Time  had  fallen 
Upon  them  both.    All  this  to  Guinevere 
He  told  in  silence  and  he  told  in  vain. 

Observing  her  ten  fingers  variously, 
She  sighed,  as  in  equivocal  assent, 
"No  two  queens  are  alike." 

415 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Is  that  the  flower 

Of  all  your  veiled  invention?"  Lancelot  said, 
Smiling  at  last :    "If  you  say,  saying  all  that, 
You  are  not  like  Isolt — well,  you  are  not. 
Isolt  was  a  physician,  who  cured  men 
Their  wounds,  and  sent  them  ro welling  for  more; 
Isolt  was  too  dark,  and  too  versatile; 
She  was  too  dark  for  Mark,  if  not  for  Tristram. 
Forgive  me;  I  was  saying  that  to  myself, 
And  not  to  make  you  shiver.    No  two  queens — 
Was  that  it? — are  alike?     A  longer  story 
Might  have  a  longer  telling  and  tell  less. 
Your  tale's  as  brief  as  Pelleas  with  his  vengeance 
On  Gawaine,  whom  he  swore  that  he  would  slay 
At  once  for  stealing  of  the  lady  Ettard." 

"Treasure  my  scantling  wits,  if  you  enjoy  them; 
Wonder  a  little,  too,  that  I  conserve  them 
Through  the  eternal  memory  of  one  morning, 
And  in  these  years  of  days  that  are  the  death 
Of  men  who  die  for  me.    I  should  have  died. 
I  should  have  died  for  them." 

"You  are  wrong,"  he  said; 

"They  died  because  Gawaine  went  mad  with  hate 
For  loss  of  his  two  brothers  and  set  the  King 
On  fire  with  fear,  the  two  of  them  believing 
His  fear  was  vengeance  when  it  was  in  fact 
A  royal  desperation.    They  died  because 
Your  world,  my  world,  and  Arthur's  world  is  dying, 
As  Merlin  said  it  would.     No  blame  is  yours; 
For  it  was  I  who  led  you  from  the  King — 
Or  rather,  to  say  truth,  it  was  your  glory 
That  led  my  love  to  lead  you  from  the  King — 
By  flowery  ways,  that  always  end  somewhere, 

416 


LANCELOT 

To  fire  and  fright  and  exile,  and  release. 
And  if  you  bid  your  memory  now  to  blot 
Your  story  from  the  book  of  what  has  been, 
Your  phantom  happiness  were  a  ghost  indeed, 
And  I  the  least  of  weasels  among  men, — 
Too  false  to  manhood  and  your  sacrifice 
To  merit  a  niche  in  hell.     If  that  were  so, 
I'd  swear  there  was  no  light  for  me  to  follow, 
Save  your  eyes  to  the  grave;  and  to  the  last 
I  might  not  know  that  all  hours  have  an  end; 
I  might  be  one  of  those  who  feed  themselves 
By  grace  of  God,  on  hopes  dryer  than  hay, 
Enjoying  not  what  they  eat,  yet  always  eating. 
The  Vision  shattered,  a  man's  love  of  living 
Becomes  at  last  a  trap  and  a  sad  habit, 
More  like  an  ailing  dotard's  love  of  liquor 
That  ails  him,  than  a  man's  right  love  of  woman, 
Or  of  his  God.    There  are  men  enough  like  that, 
And  I  might  come  to  that.     Though  I  see  far 
Before  me  now,  could  I  see,  looking  back, 
A  life  that  you  could  wish  had  not  been  lived, 
I  might  be  such  a  man.     Could  I  believe 
Our  love  was  nothing  mightier  then  than  we  were, 
I  might  be  such  a  man — a  living  dead  man, 
One  of  these  days." 

Guinevere  looked  at  him, 
And  all  that  any  woman  has  not  said 
Was  in  one  look :     "Why  do  you  stab  me  now 
With  such  a  needless  'then'  ?    If  I  am  going — 
And  I  suppose  I  am — are  the  words  all  lost 
That  men  have  said  before  to  dogs  and  children 
To  make  them  go  away?    Why  use  a  knife, 
When  there  are  words  enough  without  your  'then' 
To  cut  as  deep  as  need  be  ?    What  I  ask  you 
417 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Is  never  more  to  ask  me  if  my  life 
Be  one  that  I  could  wish  had  not  been  lived — 
And  that  you  never  torture  it  again, 
To  make  it  bleed  and  ache  as  you  do  now, 
Past  all  indulgence  or  necessity. 
Were  you  to  give  a  lonely  child  who  loved  you 
One  living  thing  to  keep — a  bird,  may  be — 
Before  you  went  away  from  her  forever, 
Would  you,  for  surety  not  to  be  forgotten, 
Maim  it  and  leave  it  bleeding  on  her  fingers  ? 
And  would  you  leave  the  child  alone  with  it — 
Alone,  and  too  bewildered  even  to  cry, 
Till  you  were  out  of  sight?    Are  you  men  never 
To  know  what  words  are?    Do  you  doubt  sometimes 
A  Vision  that  lets  you  see  so  far  away 
That  you  forget  so  lightly  who  it  was 
You  must  have  cared  for  once  to  be  so  kind — 
Or  seem  so  kind — when  she,  and  for  that  only, 
Had  that  been  all,  would  throw  down  crowns  and  glories 
To  share  with  you  the  last  part  of  the  world? 
And  even  the  queen  in  me  would  hardly  go 
So  far  off  as  to  vanish.    If  I  were  patched 
And  scrapped  in  what  the  sorriest  fisher-wife 
In  Orkney  might  give  mumbling  to  a  beggar, 
I  doubt  if  oafs  and  yokels  would  annoy  me 
More  than  I  willed  they  should.    Am  I  so  old 
And  dull,  so  lean  and  waning,  or  what  not, 
That  you  must  hurry  away  to  grasp  and  hoard 
The  small  effect  of  time  I  might  have  stolen 
From  you  and  from  a  Light  that  where  it  lives 
Must  live  for  ever?    Where  does  history  tell  you 
The  Lord  himself  would  seem  in  so  great  haste 
As  you  for  your  perfection?     If  our  world — 
Your  world  and  mine  and  Arthur's,  as  you  say — 
Is  going  out  now  to  make  way  for  another, 
418 


LANCELOT 

Why  not  before  it  goes,  and  I  go  with  it, 
Have  yet  one  morsel  more  of  life  together, 
Before  death  sweeps  the  table  and  our  few  crumbs 
Of  love  are  a  few  last  ashes  on  a  fire 
That  cannot  hurt  your  Vision,  or  burn  long? 
You  cannot  warm  your  lonely  fingers  at  it 
For  a  great  waste  of  time  when  I  am  dead : 
When  I  am  dead  you  will  be  on  your  way, 
With  maybe  not  so  much  as  one  remembrance 
Of  all  I  was,  to  follow  you  and  torment  you. 
Some  word  of  Bors  may  once  have  given  color 
To  some  few  that  I  said,  but  they  were  true — 
Whether  Bors  told  them  first  to  me,  or  whether 
I  told  them  first  to  Bors.    The  Light  you  saw 
Was  not  the  Light  of  Rome;  the  word  you  had 
Of  Rome  was  not  the  word  of  God — though  Rome 
Has  refuge  for  the  weary  and  heavy-laden. 
Were  I  to  live  too  long  I  might  seek  Rome 
Myself,  and  be  the  happier  when  I  found  it. 
Meanwhile,  am  I  to  be  no  more  to  you 
Than  a  moon-shadow  of  a  lonely  stranger 
Somewhere  in  Camelot  ?    And  is  there  no  region 
In  this  poor  fading  world  of  Arthur's  now 
Where  I  may  be  again  what  I  was  once — 
Before  I  die?    Should  I  live  to  be  old, 
I  shall  have  been  long  since  too  far  away 
For  you  to  hate  me  then ;  and  I  shall  know 
How  old  I  am  by  seeing  it  in  your  eyes." 
Her  misery  told  itself  in  a  sad  laugh, 
And  in  a  rueful  twisting  of  her  face 
That  only  beauty's  perilous  privilege 
Of  injury  would  have  yielded  or  suborned 
As  hope's  infirm  accessory  while  she  prayed 
Through  Lancelot  to  heaven  for  Lancelot. 
She  looked  away :    "If  I  were  God,"  she  said, 
419 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"I  should  say,  'Let  them  be  as  they  have  been. 
A  few  more  years  will  heap  no  vast  account 
Against  eternity,  and  all  their  love 
Was  what  I  gave  them.    They  brought  on  the  end 
Of  Arthur's  empire,  which  I  wrought  through  Merlin 
For  the  world's  knowing  of  what  kings  and  queens 
Are  made  for;  but  they  knew  not  what  they  did — 
Save  as  a  price,  and  as  a  fear  that  love 
Might  end  in  fear.    It  need  not  end  that  way, 
And  they  need  fear  no  more  for  what  I  gave  them; 
For  it  was  I  who  gave  them  to  each  other.' 
If  I  were  God,  I  should  say  that  to  you." 
He  saw  tears  quivering  in  her  pleading  eyes, 
But  through  them  she  could  see,  with  a  wild  hope, 
That  he  was  fighting.    When  he  spoke,  he  smiled — 
Much  as  he  might  have  smiled  at  her,  she  thought, 
Had  she  been  Gawaine,  Gawaine  having  given 
To  Lancelot,  who  yet  would  have  him  live, 
An  obscure  wound  that  would  not  heal  or  kill. 

"My  life  was  living  backward  for  the  moment," 
He  said,  still  burying  in  the  coals  and  ashes 
Thoughts  that  he  would  not  think.    His  tongue  was  dry, 
And  each  dry  word  he  said  was  choking  him 
As  he  said  on :     "I  cannot  ask  of  you 
That  you  be  kind  to  me,  but  there's  a  kindness 
That  is  your  proper  debt.    Would  you  cajole 
Your  reason  with  a  weary  picturing 
On  walls  or  on  vain  air  of  what  your  fancy, 
Like  firelight,  makes  of  nothing  but  itself? 
Do  you  not  see  that  I  go  from  you  only 
Because  you  go  from  me? — because  our  path 
Led  where  at  last  it  had  an  end  in  havoc, 
As  long  we  knew  it  must — as  Arthur  too, 
And  Merlin  knew  it  must? — as  Go'd  knew  it  must? 
420 


LANCELOT 

A  power  that  I  should  not  have  said  was  mine — 

That  was  not  mine,  and  is  not  mine — avails  me 

Strangely  tonight,  although  you  are  here  with  me; 

And  I  see  much  in  what  has  come  to  pass 

That  is  to  be.    The  Light  that  I  have  seen, 

As  you  say  true,  is  not  the  light  of  Rome, 

Albeit  the  word  of  Rome  that  set  you  free 

Was  more  than  mine  or  the  King's.    To  flout  that  word 

Would  sound  the  preparation  of  a  terror 

To  which  a  late  small  war  on  our  account 

Were  a  king's  pastime  and  a  queen's  annoyance; 

And  that,  for  the  good  fortune  of  a  world 

As  yet  not  over-fortuned,  may  not  be. 

There  may  be  war  to  come  when  you  are  gone, 

For  I  doubt  yet  Gawaine;  but  Rome  will  hold  you, 

Hold  you  in  Camelot.    If  there  be  more  war, 

No  fire  of  mine  shall  feed  it,  nor  shall  you 

Be  with  me  to  endure  it.    You  are  free; 

And  free,  you  are  going  home  to  Camelot. 

There  is  no  other  way  than  one  for  you, 

Nor  is  there  more  than  one  for  me.    We  have  lived, 

And  we  shall  die.     I  thank  you  for  my  life. 

Forgive  me  if  I  say  no  more  tonight." 

He  rose,  half  blind  with  pity  that  was  no  longer 

The  servant  of  his  purpose  or  his  will, 

To  grope  away  somewhere  among  the  shadows 

For  wine  to  drench  his  throat  and  his  dry  tongue, 

That  had  been  saying  he  knew  not  what  to  her 

For  whom  his  life-devouring  love  was  now 

A  scourge  of  mercy. 

Like  a  blue-eyed  Medea 

Of  white  and  gold,  broken  with  grief  and  fear 
And  fury  that  shook  her  speechless  while  she  waited, 
Yet  left  her  calm  enough  for  Lancelot 
421 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

To  see  her  without  seeing,  she  stood  up 

To  breathe  and  suffer.    Fury  could  not  live  long, 

With  grief  and  fear  like  hers  and  love  like  hers, 

When  speech  came  back :    "No  other  way  now  than  one  ? 

Free  ?    Do  you  call  me  free  ?    Do  you  mean  by  that 

There  was  never  woman  alive  freer  to  live 

Than  I  am  free  to  die?    Do  you  call  me  free 

Because  you  are  driven  so  near  to  death  yourself 

With  weariness  of  me,  and  the  sight  of  me, 

That  you  must  use  a  crueller  knife  than  ever, 

And  this  time  at  my  heart,  for  me  to  watch 

Before  you  drive  it  home?    For  God's  sake,  drive  it! 

Drive  it  as  often  as  you  have  the  others, 

And  let  the  picture  of  each  wound  it  makes 

On  me  be  shown  to  women  and  men  for  ever ; 

And  the  good  few  that  know — let  them  reward  you. 

I  hear  them,  in  such  low  and  pitying  words 

As  only  those  who  know,  and  are  not  many, 

Are  used  to  say :    'The  good  knight  Lancelot 

It  was  who  drove  the  knife  home  to  her  heart, 

Rather  than  drive  her  home  to  C'amelot.' 

Home !    Free !    Would  you  let  me  go  there  again — 

To  be  at  home? — be  free?    To  be  his  wife? 

To  live  in  his  arms  always,  and  so  hate  him 

That  I  could  heap  around  him  the  same  faggots 

That  you  put  out  with  blood  ?    Go  home,  you  say  ? 

Home  ? — where  I  saw  the  black  post  waiting  for  me 

That  morning? — saw  those  good  men  die  for  me — 

Gareth  and  Gaheris,  Lamorak's  brother  Tor, 

And  all  the  rest?    Are  men  to  die  for  me 

For  ever?    Is  there  water  enough,  do  you  think, 

Between  this  place  and  that  for  me  to  drown  in  ?" 

"There  is  time  enough,  I  think,  between  this  hour 

And  some  wise  hour  tomorrow,  for  you  to  sleep  in. 

422 


LANCELOT 

When  you  are  safe  again  in  Camelot, 
The  King  will  not  molest  you  or  pursue  you; 
The  King  will  be  a  suave  and  chastened  man. 
In  Camelot  you  shall  have  no  more  to  dread 
Than  you  shall  hear  then  of  this  rain  that  roars 
Tonight  as  if  it  would  be  roaring  always. 
I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  the  faggots, 
Though  I  would  have  you  do  so  for  your  peace. 
Only  the  wise  who  know  may  do  so  much, 
And  they,  as  you  say  truly,  are  not  many. 
And  I  would  say  no  more  of  this  tonight." 

"Then  do  not  ask  me  for  the  one  last  thing 
That  I  shall  give  to  God !    I  thought  I  died 
That  morning.     Why  am  I  alive  again, 
To  die  again?    Are  you  all  done  with  me? 
Is  there  no  longer  something  left  of  me 
That  made  you  need  me  ?    Have  I  lost  myself 
So  fast  that  what  a  mirror  says  I  am 
Is  not  what  is,  but  only  what  was  once? 
Does  half  a  year  do  that  with  us,  I  wonder, 
Or  do  I  still  have  something  that  was  mine 
That  afternoon  when  I  was  in  the  sunset, 
Under  the  oak,  and  you  were  looking  at  me? 
Your  look  was  not  all  sorrow  for  your  going 
To  find  the  Light  and  leave  me  in  the  dark — 
But  I  am  the  daughter  of  Leodogran, 
And  you  are  Lancelot, — and  have  a  tongue 
To  say  what  I  may  not.  .  .  .  Why  must  I  go 
To  Camelot  when  your  kinsmen  hold  all  France? 
Why  is  there  not  some  nook  in  some  old  house 
Where  I  might  hide  myself — -with  you  or  not? 
Is  there  no  castle,  or  cabin,  or  cave  in  the  woods? 
Yes,  I  could  love  the  bats  and  owls,  in  France, 
A  lifetime  sooner  than  I  could  the  King 
423 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  I  shall  see  in  Camelot,  waiting  there 
For  me  to  cringe  and  beg  of  him  again 
The  dust  of  mercy,  calling  it  holy  bread. 
I  wronged  him,  but  he  bought  me  with  a  name 
Too  large  for  my  king-father  to  relinquish — 
Though  I  prayed  him,  and  I  prayed  God  aloud, 
To  spare  that  crown.     I  called  it  crown  enough 
To  be  my  father's  child — until  you  came. 
And  then  there  were  no  crowns  or  kings  or  fathers 
Under  the  sky.    I  saw  nothing  but  you. 
And  you  would  whip  me  back  to  bury  myself 
In  Camelot,  with  a  few  slave  maids  and  lackeys 
To  be  my  grovelling  court;  and  even  their  faces 
Would  not  hide  half  the  story.    Take  me  to  France — 
To  France  or  Egypt, — anywhere  else  on  earth 
Than  Camelot !    Is  there  not  room  in  France 
For  two  more  dots  of  mortals? — or  for  one? — 
For  me  alone?    Let  Lionel  go  with  me — 
Or  Bors.    Let  Bors  go  with  me  into  France, 
And  leave  me  there.    And  when  you  think  of  me, 
Say  Guinevere  is  in  France,  where  she  is  happy; 
And  you  may  say  no  more  of  her  than  that  .  .  . 
Why  do  you  not  say  something  to  me  now — 
Before  I  go?    Why  do  you  look — and  look? 
Why  do  you  frown  as  if  you  thought  me  mad? 
I  am  not  mad — but  I  shall  soon  be  mad, 
If  I  go  back  to  Camelot  where  the  King  is. 
Lancelot!  ...  Is  there  nothing  left  of  me? 
Nothing  of  what  you  called  your  white  and  gold, 
And  made  so  much  of?    Has  it  all  gone  by? 
He  must  have  been  a  lonely  God  who  made 
Man  in  his  image  and  then  made  only  a  woman! 
Poor  fool  she  was !    Poor  Queen !    Poor  Guinevere ! 
There  were  kings  and  bishops  once,  under  her  window 
Like  children,  and  all  scrambling  for  a  flower. 
424 


LANCELOT 

Time  was! — God  help  me,  what  am  I  saying  now! 
Does  a  Queen's  memory  wither  away  to  that? 
Am  I  so  dry  as  that?^   Am  I  a  shell? 
Have  I  become  so  cheap  as  this?  ...  I  wonder 
Why  the  King  cared !"     She  fell  down  on  her  knees 
Crying,  and  held  his  knees  with  hungry  fear. 

Over  his  folded  arms,  as  over  the  ledge 
Of  a  storm-shaken  parapet,  he  could  see, 
Below  him,  like  a  tumbling  flood  of  gold, 
The  Queen's  hair  with  a  crumpled  foam  of  white 
Around  it:     "Do  you  ask,  as  a  child  would, 
For  France  because  it  has  a  name?     How  long 
Do  you  conceive  the  Queen  of  the  Christian  world 
Would  hide  herself  in  France  were  she  to  go  there? 
How  long  should  Rome  require  to  find  her  there? 
And  how  long,  Rome  or  not,  would  such  a  flower 
As  you  survive  the  unrooting  and  transplanting 
That  you  commend  so  ingenuously  tonight? 
And  if  we  shared  your  cave  together,  how  long, 
And  in  the  joy  of  what  obscure  seclusion, 
If  I  may  say  it,  were  Lancelot  of  the  Lake 
And  Guinevere  an  unknown  man  and  woman, 
For  no  eye  to  see  twice?    There  are  ways  to  France, 
But  why  pursue  them  for  Rome's  interdict, 
And  for  a  longer  war?     Your  path  is  now 
As  open  as  mine  is  dark — or  would  be  dark, 
Without  the  Light  that  once  had  blinded  me 
To  death,  had  I  seen  more.    I  shall  see  more, 
And  I  shall  not  be  blind.     I  pray,  moreover, 
That  you  be  not  so  now.    You  are  a  Queen, 
And  you  may  be  no  other.     You  are  too  brave 
And  kind  and  fair  for  men  to  cheer  with  lies. 
We  cannot  make  one  world  of  two,  nor  may  we 
Count  one  life  more  than  one.     Could  we  go  back 
425 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

To  the  old  garden,  we  should  not  stay  long; 
The  fruit  that  we  should  find  would  all  be  fallen, 
And  have  the  taste  of  earth." 

When  she  looked  up, 

A  tear  fell  on  her  forehead.    "Take  me  away  1" 
She  cried.     "Why  do  you  do  this  ?    Why  do  you  say  this  ? 
If  you  are  sorry  for  me,  take  me  away 
From  C'amelot!     Send  me  away — drive  me  away — 
Only  away  from  there!    The  King  is  there — 
And  I  may  kill  him  if  I  see  him  there. 
Take  me  away — take  me  away  to  France! 
And  if  I  cannot  hide  myself  in  France, 
Then  let  me  die  in  France!" 

He  shook  his  head, 

Slowly,  and  raised  her  slowly  in  his  arms, 
Holding  her  there;  and  they  stood  long  together. 
And  there  was  no  sound  then  of  anything, 
Save  a  low  moaning  of  a  broken  woman, 
And  the  cold  roaring  down  of  that  long  rain. 

All  night  the  rain  came  down  on  Joyous  Gard; 
And  all  night,  there  before  the  crumbling  embers 
That  faded  into  feathery  death-like  dust, 
Lancelot  sat  and  heard  it.    He  saw  not 
The  fire  that  died,  but  he  heard  rain  that  fell 
On  all  those  graves  around  him  and  those  years 
Behind  him;  and  when  dawn  came,  he  was  cold. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  for  a  time  stood  seeing 
The  place  where  she  had  been.    She  was  not  there; 
He  was  not  sure  that  she  had  ever  been  there; 
He  was  not  sure  there  was  a  Queen,  or  a  King, 
Or  a  world  with  kingdoms  on  it.    He  was  cold. 
He  was  not  sure  of  anything  but  the  Light — 
426 


LANCELOT 

The  Light  he  saw  not.    "And  I  shall  not  see  it," 

He  thought,  "so  long  as  I  kill  men  for  Gawaine. 

If  I  kill  him,  I  may  as  well  kill  myself; 

And  I  have  killed  his  brothers."     He  tried  to  sleep, 

But  rain  had  washed  the  sleep  out  of  his  life, 

And  there  was  no  more  sleep.     When  he  awoke, 

He  did  not  know  that  he  had  been  asleep ; 

And  the  same  rain  was  falling.    At  some  strange  hour 

It  ceased,  and  there  was  light.    And  seven  days  after, 

With  a  cavalcade  of  silent  men  and  women, 

The  Queen  rode  into  Camelot,  where  the  King  was, 

And  Lancelot  rode  grimly  at  her  side. 

When  he  rode  home  again  to  Joyous  Gard, 

The  storm  in  Gawaine's  eyes  and  the  King's  word 

Of  banishment  attended  him.     "Gawaine 

Will  give  the  King  no  peace,"  Lionel  said; 

And  Lancelot  said  after  him,  "Therefore 

The  King  will  have  no  peace." — And  so  it  was 

That  Lancelot,  with  many  of  Arthur's  knights 

That  were  not  Arthur's  now,  sailed  out  one  day 

From  Cardiff  to  Bayonne,  where  soon  Gawaine, 

The  King,  and  the  King's  army  followed  them, 

For  longer  sorrow  and  for  longer  war. 

VIII 

FOR  longer  war  they  came,  and  with  a  fury 
That  only  Modred's  opportunity, 
Seized  in  the  dark  of  Britain,  could  have  hushed 
And  ended  in  a  night.    For  Lancelot, 
When  he  was  hurried  amazed  out  of  his  rest 
Of  a  gray  morning  to  the  scarred  gray  wall 
Of  Benwick,  where  he  slept  and  fought,  and  saw 
Not  yet  the  termination  of  a  strife 
427 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  irked  him  out  of  utterance,  found  again 

Before  him  a  still  plain  without  an  army. 

What  the  mist  hid  between  him  and  the  distance 

He  knew  not,  but  a  multitude  of  doubts 

And  hopes  awoke  in  him,  and  one  black  fear, 

At  sight  of  a  truce-waving  messenger 

In  whose  approach  he  read,  as  by  the  Light 

Itself,  the  last  of  Arthur.    The  man  reined 

His  horse  outside  the  gate,  and  Lancelot, 

Above  him  on  the  wall,  with  a  sick  heart, 

Listened :     "Sir  Gawaine  to  Sir  Lancelot 

Sends  greeting;  and  this  with  it,  in  his  hand. 

The  King  has  raised  the  siege,  and  you  in  France 

He  counts  no  longer  with  his  enemies. 

His  toil  is  now  for  Britain,  and  this  war 

With  you,  Sir  Lancelot,  is  an  old  war, 

If  you  will  have  it  so." — "Bring  the  man  in," 

Said  Lancelot,  "and  see  that  he  fares  well." 

All  through  the  sunrise,  and  alone,  he  sat 
With  Gawaine's  letter,  looking  toward  the  sea 
That  flowed  somewhere  between  him  and  the  land 
That  waited  Arthur's  coming,  but  not  his. 
"King  Arthur's  war  with  me  is  an  old  war, 
If  I  will  have  it  so,"  he  pondered  slowly; 
"And  Gawaine's  hate  for  me  is  an  old  hate, 
If  I  will  have  it  so.    But  Gawaine's  wound 
Is  not  a  wound  that  heals;  and  there  is  Modred — 
Inevitable  as  ruin  after  flood. 

The  cloud  that  has  been  darkening  Arthur's  empire 
May  now  have  burst,  with  Arthur  still  in  France, 
Many  hours  away  from  Britain,  and  a  world 
Away  from  me.    But  I  read  this  in  my  heart. 
If  in  the  blot  of  Modred's  evil  shadow, 
Conjecture  views  a  cloudier  world  than  is, 
428 


LANCELOT 

So  much  the  better,  then,  for  clouds  and  worlds, 
And  kings.     Gawaine  says  nothing  yet  of  this, 
But  when  he  tells  me  nothing  he  tells  all. 
Now  he  is  here,  fordone  and  left  behind, 
Pursuant  of  his  wish;  and  there  are  words 
That  he  would  say  to  me.    Had  I  not  struck  him 
Twice  to  the  earth,  unwillingly,  for  my  life, 
My  best  eye  then,  I  fear,  were  best  at  work 
On  what  he  has  not  written.    As  it  is, 
If  I  go  seek  him  now,  and  in  good  faith, 
My  faith  may  dig  my  grave.    If  so,  then  so. 
If  I  know  only  with  my  eyes  and  ears, 
I  may  as  well  not  know." 

Gawaine,  having  scanned 

His  words  and  sent  them,  found  a  way  to  sleep — 
And  sleeping,  to  forget.     But  he  remembered 
Quickly  enough  when  he  woke  up  to  meet 
With  his  the  shining  gaze  of  Lancelot 
Above  him  in  a  shuttered  morning  gloom, 
Seeming  at  first  a  darkness  that  had  eyes. 
Fear  for  a  moment  seized  him,  and  his  heart, 
Long  whipped  and  driven  with  fever,  paused  and  flickered, 
As  like  to  fail  too  soon.    Fearing  to  move, 
He  waited;  fearing  to  speak,  he  waited;  fearing 
To  see  too  clearly  or  too  much,  he  waited; 
For  what,  he  wondered — even  the  while  he  knew 
It  was  for  Lancelot  to  say  something. 
And  soon  he  did:     "Gawaine,  I  thought  at  first 
No  man  was  here." 

"No  man  was,  till  you  came. 
Sit  down ;  and  for  the  love  of  God  who  made  you, 
Say  nothing  to  me  now  of  my  three  brothers. 
Gareth  and  Gaheris  and  Agravaine 
429 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Are  gone;  and  I  am  going  after  them; 
Of  such  is  our  election.    When  you  gave 
That  ultimate  knock  on  my  revengeful  head, 
You  did  a  piece  of  work." 

"May  God  forgive," 
Lancelot  said,  "I  did  it  for  my  life, 
Not  yours." 

"I  know,  but  I  was  after  yours; 
Had  I  been  Lancelot,  and  you  Gawaine, 
You  might  be  dead." 

"Had  you  been  Lancelot, 

And  I  Gawaine,  my  life  had  not  been  yours — 
Not  willingly.     Your  brothers  are  my  debt 
That  I  shall  owe  to  sorrow  and  to  God, 
For  whatsoever  payment  there  may  be. 
What  I  have  paid  is  not  a  little,  Gawaine." 

"Why  leave  me  out  ?    A  brother  more  or  less 
Would  hardly  be  the  difference  of  a  shaving. 
My  loose  head  would  assure  you,  saying  this, 
That  I  have  no  more  venom  in  me  now 
On  their  account  than  mine,  which  is  not  much. 
There  was  a  madness  feeding  on  us  all, 
As  we  fed  on  the  world.     When  the  world  sees, 
The  world  will  have  in  turn  another  madness; 
And  so,  as  I've  a  glimpse,  ad  infinitum. 
But  I'm  not  of  the  seers :    Merlin  it  was 
Who  turned  a  sort  of  ominous  early  glimmer 
On  my  profane  young  life.    And  after  that 
He  falls  himself,  so  far  that  he  becomes 
One  of  our  most  potential  benefits — 
Like  Vivian,  or  the  mortal  end  of  Modred. 
430 


LANCELOT 

Why  could  you  not  have  taken  Modred  also, 
And  had  the  five  of  us?    You  did  your  best, 
We  know,  yet  he's  more  poisonously  alive 
Than  ever;  and  he's  a  brother,  of  a  sort, 
Or  half  of  one,  and  you  should  not  have  missed  him. 
A  gloomy  curiosity  was  our  Modred, 
From  his  first  intimation  of  existence. 
God  made  him  as  He  made  the  crocodile, 
To  prove  He  was  omnipotent.    Having  done  so, 
And  seeing  then  that  Camelot,  of  all  places 
Ripe  for  annihilation,  most  required  him, 
He  put  him  there  at  once,  and  there  he  grew. 
And  there  the  King  would  sit  with  him  for  hours, 
Admiring  Modred's  growth;  and  all  the  time 
His  evil  it  was  that  grew,  the  King  not  seeing 
In  Modred  the  Almighty's  instrument 
Of  a  world's  overthrow.     You,  Lancelot, 
And  I,  have  rendered  each  a  contribution; 
And  your  last  hard  attention  on  my  skull 
Might  once  have  been  a  benison  on  the  realm, 
As  I  shall  be,  too  late,  when  I'm  laid  out 
With  a  clean  shroud  on — though  I'd  liefer  stay 
A  while  alive  with  you  to  see  what's  coming. 
But  I  was  not  for  that;  I  may  have  been 
For  something,  but  not  that.     The  King,  my  uncle, 
Has  had  for  all  his  life  so  brave  a  diet 
Of  miracles,  that  his  new  fare  before  him 
Of  late  has  ailed  'him  strangely ;  and  of  all 
Who  loved  him  once  he  needs  you  now  the  most — 
Though  he  would  not  so  much  as  whisper  this 
To  me  or  to  my  shadow.    He  goes  alone 
To  Britain,  with  an  army  brisk  as  lead, 
To  battle  with  his  Modred  for  a  throne 
That  waits,  I  fear,  for  Modred — should  your  France 
Not  have  it  otherwise.    And  the  Queen's  in  this, 
431 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

For  Modred's  game  and  prey.     God  save  the  Queen, 

If  not  the  King!    I've  always  liked  this  world; 

And  I  would  a  deal  rather  live  in  it 

Than  leave  it  in  the  middle  of  all  this  music. 

If  you  are  listening,  give  me  some  cold  water." 

Lancelot,  seeing  by  now  in  dim  detail 

What  little  was  around  him  to  be  seen, 

Found  what  he  sought  and  held  a  cooling  cup 

To  Gawaine,  who,  with  both  hands  clutching  it, 

Drank  like  a  child.     "I  should  have  had  that  first," 

He  said,  with  a  loud  breath,  "before  my  tongue 

Began  to  talk.    What  was  it  saying?    Modred? 

All  through  the  growing  pains  of  his  ambition 

I've  watched  him;  and  I  might  have  this  and  that 

To  say  about  him,  if  my  hours  were  days. 

Well,  if  you  love  the  King  and  hope  to  save  him, 

Eemember  his  many  infirmities  of  virtue — 

Considering  always  what  you  have  in  Modred, 

For  ever  unique  in  his  iniquity. 

My  truth  might  have  a  prejudicial  savor 

To  strangers,  but  we  are  not  strangers  now. 

Though  I  have  only  one  spoiled  eye  that  sees, 

I  see  in  yours  we  are  not  strangers  now. 

I  tell  you,  as  I  told  you  long  ago — 

When  the  Queen  came  to  put  my  candles  out 

With  her  gold  head  and  her  propinquity — 

That  all  your  doubts  that  you  had  then  of  me, 

When  they  were  more  than  various  imps  and  harpies 

Of  your  inflamed  invention,  were  sick  doubts : 

King  Arthur  was  my  uncle,  as  he  is  now; 

But  my  Queen-aunt,  who  loved  him  something  less 

Than  cats  love  rain,  was  not  my  only  care. 

Had  all  the  women  who  came  to  Camelot 

Been  aunts  of  mine,  I  should  have  been,  long  since, 


LANCELOT 

The  chilliest  of  all  unwashed  eremites 
In  a  far  land  alone.     For  my  dead  brothers, 
Though  I  would  leave  them  where  I  go  to  them, 
I  read  their  story  as  I  read  my  own, 
And  yours,  and — were  I  given  the  eyes  of  God — 
As  I  might  yet  read  Modred's.    For  the  Queen, 
May  she  be  safe  in  London  where  she's  hiding 
Now  in  the  Tower.     For  the  King,  you  only — 
And  you  but  hardly — may  deliver  him  yet 
From  that  which  Merlin's  vision  long  ago, 
If  I  made  anything  of  Merlin's  words, 
Foretold  of  Arthur's  end.     And  for  ourselves, 
And  all  who  died  for  us,  or  now  are  dying 
Like  rats  around  us  of  their  numerous  wounds 
And  ills  and  evils,  only  this  do  I  know — 
And  this  you  know:  The  world  has  paid  enough 
For  Camelot.    It  is  the  world's  turn  now — 
Or  so  it  would  be  if  the  world  were  not 
The  world.     'Another  Camelot,'  Bedivere  says; 
'Another  Camelot  and  another  King' — 
Whatever  he  means  by  that.    With  a  lineal  twist, 
I  might  be  king  myself;  and  then,  my  lord, 
Time  would  have  sung  my  reign — I  say  not  how. 
Had  I  gone  on  with  you,  and  seen  with  you 
Your  Gleam,  and  had  some  ray  of  it  been  mine, 
I  might  be  seeing  more  and  saying  less. 
Meanwhile,  I  liked  this  world;  and  what  was  on 
The  Lord's  mind  when  He  made  it  is  no  matter. 
Be  lenient,  Lancelot;  I've  a  light  head. 
Merlin  appraised  it  once  when  I  was  young, 
Telling  me  then  that  I  should  have  the  world 
To  play  with.    Well,  I've  had  it,  and  played  with  it; 
And  here  I'm  with  you  now  where  you  have  sent  me 
Neatly  to  bed,  with  a  towel  over  one  eye; 
And  we  were  two  of  the  world's  ornaments. 
433 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Praise  all  you  are  that  Arthur  was  your  King; 
You  might  have  had  no  Gleam  had  I  been  King, 
Or  had  the  Queen  been  like  some  queens  I  knew. 
King  Lot,  my  father — " 

Lancelot  laid  a  finger 

On  Gawaine's  lips:     "You  are  too  tired  for  that." — 
"Not  yet,"  said  Gawaine,  "though  I  may  be  soon. 
Think  you  that  I  forget  this  Modred's  mother 
Was  mine  as  well  as  Modred's?    When  I  meet 
My  mother's  ghost,  what  shall  I  do — forgive? 
When  I'm  a  ghost,  I'll  forgive  everything  .  .  . 
It  makes  me  cold  to  think  what  a  ghost  knows. 
Put  out  the  bonfire  burning  in  my  head, 
And  light  one  at  my  feet.    When  the  King  thought 
The  Queen  was  in  the  flames,  he  called  on  you : 
'God,  God,'  he  said,  and  'Lancelot/    I  was  there, 
And  so  I  heard  him.    That  was  a  bad  morning 
For  kings  and  queens,  and  there  are  to  be  worse. 
Bedivere  had  a  dream,  once  on  a  time: 
'Another  Camelot  and  another  King,' 
He  says  when  he's  awake;  but  when  he  dreams, 
There  are  no  kings.    Tell  Bedivere,  some  day, 
That  he  saw  best  awake.    Say  to  the  King 
That  I  saw  nothing  vaster  than  my  shadow, 
Until  it  was  too  late  for  me  to  see; 
Say  that  I  loved  him  well,  but  served  him  ill — 
If  you  two  meet  again.    Say  to  the  Queen  .  .  . 
Say  what  you  may  say  best.    Eemember  me 
To  Pelleas,  too,  and  tell  him  that  his  lady 
Was  a  vain  serpent.    He  was  dying  once 
For  love  of  her,  and  had  me  in  his  eye 
For  company  along  the  dusky  road 
Before  me  now.    But  Pelleas  lived,  and  married. 
Lord  God,  how  much  we  know ! — What  have  I  done  ? 
434 


LANCELOT 

Why  do  you  scowl  ?    Well,  well, — so  the  earth  clings 
To  sons  of  earth;  and  it  will  soon  be  clinging, 
To  this  one  son  of  earth  you  deprecate, 
Closer  than  heretofore.     I  say  too  much, 
Who  should  be  thinking  all  a  man  may  think 
When  he  has  no  machine.    I  say  too  much — 
Always.    If  I  persuade  the  devil  again 
That  I'm  asleep,  will  you  espouse  the  notion 
For  a  small  hour  or  so  ?     I  might  be  glad — 
Not  to  be  here  alone."    He  gave  his  hand 
Slowly,  in  hesitation.     Lancelot  shivered, 
Knowing  the  chill  of  it.    "Yes,  you  say  too  much," 
He  told  him,  trying  to  smile.     "Now  go  to  sleep; 
And  if  you  may,  forget  what  you  forgive." 

Lancelot,  for  slow  hours  that  were  as  long 

As  leagues  were  to  the  King  and  his  worn  army, 

Sat  waiting, — though  not  long  enough  to  know 

From  any  word  of  Gawaine,  who  slept  on, 

That  he  was  glad  not  to  be  there  alone. — 

"Peace  to  your  soul,  Gawaine,"  Lancelot  said, 

And  would  have  closed  his  eyes.    But  they  were  closed. 

IX 

So  Lancelot,  with  a  world's  weight  upon  him, 
Went  heavily  to  that  heaviest  of  all  toil, 
Which  of  itself  tells  hard  in  the  beginning 
Of  what  the  end  shall  be.    He  found  an  army 
That  would  have  razed  all  Britain,  and  found  kings 
For  generals ;  and  they  all  went  to  Dover, 
Where  the  white  cliffs  were  ghostlike  in  the  dawn, 
And  after  dawn  were  deathlike.    For  the  word 
Of  the  dead  King's  last  battle  chilled  the  sea 
Before  a  sail  was  down;  and  all  who  came 
435 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

With  Lancelot  heard  soon  from  little  men, 
Who  clambered  overside  with  larger  news, 
How  ill  had  fared  the  great.    Arthur  was  dead, 
And  Modred  with  him,  each  by  the  other  slain; 
And  there  was  no  knight  left  of  all  who  fought 
On  Salisbury  field  save  one,  Sir  Bedivere, 
Of  whom  the  tale  was  told  that  he  had  gone 
Darkly  away  to  some  far  hermitage, 
To  think  and  die.    There  were  tales  told  of  a  ship. 

Anon,  by  further  sounding  of  more  men, 

Each  with  a  more  delirious  involution 

Than  his  before  him,  he  believed  at  last 

The  Queen  was  yet  alive — if  it  were  life 

To  draw  now  the  Queen's  breath,  or  to  see  Britain 

With  the  Queen's  eyes — and  that  she  fared  somewhere 

To  westward  out  of  London,  where  the  Tower 

Had  held  her,  as  once  Joyous  Gard  had  held  her, 

For  dolorous  weeks  and  months  a  prisoner  there, 

With  Modred  not  far  off,  his  eyes  afire 

For  her  and  for  the  King's  avenging  throne, 

That  neither  King  nor  son  should  see  again. 

"  The  world  had  paid  enough  for  Camelot/ 

Gawaine  said;  and  the  Queen  had  paid  enough, 

God  knows,"  said  Lancelot.    He  saw  Bors  again 

And  found  him  angry — angry  with  his  tears, 

And  with  his  fate  that  was  a  reason  for  them : 

"Could  I  have  died  with  Modred  on  my  soul, 

And  had  the  King  lived  on,  then  had  I  lived 

On  with  him;  and  this  played-out  world  of  ours 

Might  not  be  for  the  dead." 

"A  played-out  world, 

Although  that  world  be  ours,  had  best  be  dead," 
Said  Lancelot:    "There  are  worlds  enough  to  follow. 
436 


LANCELOT 

'Another  Camelot  and  another  King/ 
Bedivere  said.     And  where  is  Bedivere  now? 
And  Camelot?" 

"There  is  no  Camelot," 

Bors  answered.     "Are  we  going  back  to  France, 
Or  are  we  to  tent  here  and  feed  our  souls 
On  memories  and  on  ruins  till  even  our  souls 
Are  dead  ?    Or  are  we  to  set  free  for  sport 
An  idle  army  for  what  comes  of  it?" 

"Be  idle  till  you  hear  from  me  again, 

Or  for  a  fortnight.     Then,  if  you  have  no  word, 

Go  back;  and  I  may  follow  you  alone, 

In  my  own  time,  in  my  own  way." 

"Your  way 

Of  late,  I  fear,  has  been  too  much  your  own; 
But  what  has  been,  has  been,  and  I  say  nothing. 
For  there  is  more  than  men  at  work  in  this; 
And  I  have  not  your  eyes  to  find  the  Light, 
Here  in  the  dark — though  some  day  I  may  see  it." 

"We  shall  all  see  it,  Bors,"  Lancelot  said, 
With  his  eyes  on  the  earth.    He  said  no  more. 
Then  with  a  sad  farewell,  he  rode  away, 
Somewhere  into  the  west.    He  knew  not  where. 

"We  shall  all  see  it,  Bors,"  he  said  again. 

Over  and  over  he  said  it,  still  as  he  rode, 

And  rode,  away  to  the  west,  he  knew  not  where, 

Until  at  last  he  smiled  unhappily 

At  the  vain  sound  of  it.     "Once  I  had  gone 

Where  the  Light  guided  me,  but  the  Queen  came. 

And  then  there  was  no  Light.    We  shall  all  see — " 

437    . 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  bit  the  words  off  short,  snapping  his  teeth, 

And  rode  on  with  his  memories  before  him, 

Before  him  and  behind.     They  were  a  cloud 

For  no  Light  now  to  pierce.    They  were  a  cloud 

Made  out  of  what  was  gone ;  and  what  was  gone 

Had  now  another  lure  than  once  it  had, 

Before  it  went  so  far  away  from  him — 

To  Camelot.    And  there  was  no  Camelot  now — 

Now  that  no  Queen  was  there,  all  white  and  gold, 

Under  an  oaktree  with  another  sunlight 

Sifting  itself  in  silence  on  her  glory 

Through  the  dark  leaves  above  her  where  she  sat, 

Smiling  at  what  she  feared,  and  fearing  least 

What  most  there  was  to  fear.    Ages  ago 

That  must  have  been ;  for  a  king's  world  had  faded 

Since  then,  and  a  king  with  it.    Ages  ago, 

And  yesterday,  surely  it  must  have  been 

That  he  had  held  her  moaning  in  the  firelight 

And  heard  the  roaring  down  of  that  long  rain, 

As  if  to  wash  away  the  walls  that  held  them 

Then  for  that  hour  together.    Ages  ago, 

And  always,  it  had  been  that  he  had  seen  her, 

As  now  she  was,  floating  along  before  him, 

Too  far  to  touch  and  too  fair  not  to  follow, 

Even  though  to  touch  her  were  to  die.    He  closed 

His  eyes,  only  to  see  what  he  had  seen 

When  they  were  open ;  and  he  found  it  nearer, 

Seeing  nothing  now  but  the  still  white  and  gold 

In  a  wide  field  of  sable,  smiling  at  him, 

But  with  a  smile  not  hers  until  today — 

A  smile  to  drive  no  votary  from  the  world 

To  find  the  Light.    "She  is  not  what  it  is 

That  I  see  now,"  lie  said :    "No  woman  alive 

And  out  of  hell  was  ever  like  that  to  me. 

What  have  I  done  to  her  since  I  have  lost  her? 

.    438 


LANCELOT 

What  have  I  done  to  change  her  ?    No,  it  is  I — 

I  who  have  changed.     She  is  not  one  who  changes. 

The  Light  came,  and  I  did  not  follow  it; 

Then  she  came,  knowing  not  what  thing  she  did, 

And  she  it  was  I  followed.     The  gods  play 

Like  that,  sometimes;  and  when  the  gods  are  playing, 

Great  men  are  not  so  great  as  the  great  gods 

Had  led  them  once  to  dream.    I  see  her  now 

Where  now  she  is  alone.    We  are  all  alone, 

We  that  are  left;  and  if  I  look  too  long 

Into  her  eyes  ...  I  shall  not  look  too  long. 

Yet  look  I  must.    Into  the  west,  they  say, 

She  went  for  refuge.    I  see  nuns  around  her; 

But  she,  with  so  much  history  tenanting 

Her  eyes,  and  all  that  gold  over  her  eyes, 

Were  not  yet,  I  should  augur,  out  of  them. 

If  I  do  ill  to  see  her,  then  may  God 

Forgive  me  one  more  trespass.    I  would  leave 

The  world  and  not  the  shadow  of  it  behind  me." 


Time  brought  his  weary  search  to  a  dusty  end 
One  afternoon  in  Almesbury,  where  he  left, 
With  a  glad  sigh,  his  horse  in  an  innyard; 
And  while  he  ate  his  food  and  drank  his  wine, 
Thrushes,  indifferent  in  their  loyalty 
To  Arthur  dead  and  to  Pan  never  dead, 
Sang  as  if  all  were  now  as  all  had  been. 
Lancelot  heard  them  till  his  thoughts  came  back 
To  freeze  his  heart  again  under  the  flood 
Of  all  his  icy  fears.     What  should  he  find? 
And  what  if  he  should  not  find  anything? 
"Words,  after  all,"  he  said,  "are  only  words; 
And  I  have  heard  so  many  in  these  few  days 
That  half  my  wits  are  sick." 

439 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  found  the  queen, 

But  she  was  not  the  Queen  of  white  and  gold 
That  he  had  seen  before  him  for  so  long. 
There  was  no  gold;  there  was  no  gold  anywhere. 
The  black  hood,  and  the  white  face  under  it, 
And  the  blue  frightened  eyes,  were  all  he  saw — 
Until  he  saw  more  black,  and  then  more  white. 
Black  was  a  foreign  foe  to  Guinevere; 
And  in  the  glimmering  stillness  where  he  found  her 
Now,  it  was  death;  and  she  Alcestis-like, 
Had  waited  unaware  for  the  one  hand 
Availing,  so  he  thought,  that  would  have  torn 
Off  and  away  the  last  fell  shred  of  doom 
That  was  destroying  and  dishonoring 
All  the  world  held  of  beauty.    His  eyes  burned 
With  a  sad  anger  as  he  gazed  at  hers 
That  shone  with  a  sad  pity.    "No,"  she  said ; 
"You  have  not  come  for  this.    We  are  done  with  this. 
For  there  are  no  queens  here ;  there  is  a  Mother. 
The  Queen  that  was  is  only  a  child  now, 
And  you  are  strong.    Remember  you  are  strong, 
And  that  your  fingers  hurt  when  they  forget 
How  strong  they  are." 

He  let  her  go  from  him 

And  while  he  gazed  around  him,  he  frowned  hard 
And  long  at  the  cold  walls :    "Is  this  the  end 
Of  Arthur's  kingdom  and  of  Camelot?" — 
She  told  him  with  a  motion  of  her  shoulders 
All  that  she  knew  of  Camelot  or  of  kingdoms; 
And  then  said:    "We  are  told  of  other  States 
Where  there  are  palaces,  if  we  should  need  them, 
That  are  not  made  with  hands.    I  thought  you  knew." 

Dumb,  like  a  man  twice  banished,  Lancelot 
Stood  gazing  down  upon  the  cold  stone  floor; 
440 


LANCELOT 

And  she,  demurely,  with  a  calm  regard 
That  he  met  once  and  parried,  stood  apart, 
Appraising  him  with  eyes  that  were  no  longer 
Those  he  had  seen  when  first  they  had  seen  his. 
They  were  kind  eyes,  but  they  were  not  the  eyes 
Of  his  desire;  and  they  were  not  the  eyes 
That  he  had  followed  all  the  way  from  Dover. 
"I  feared  the  Light  was  leading  you,"  she  said, 
"So  far  by  now  from  any  place  like  this 
That  I  should  have  your  memory,  but  no  more. 
Might  not  that  way  have  been  the  wiser  way? 
There  is  no  Arthur  now,  no  Modred  now, — 
~No  Guinevere."     She  paused,  and  her  voice  wandered 
Away  from  her  own  name :     "There  is  nothing  now 
That  I  can  see  between  you  and  the  Light 
That  I  have  dimmed  so  long.    If  you  forgive  me, 
And  I  believe  you  do — though  I  know  all 
That  I  have  cost,  when  I  was  worth  so  little — 
There  is  no  hazard  that  I  see  between  you 
And  all  you  sought  so  long,  and  would  have  found 
Had  I  not  always  hindered  you.     Forgive  me — 
I  could  not  let  you  go.    God  pity  men 
When  women  love  too  much — and  women  more." 
He  scowled  and  with  an  iron  shrug  he  said : 
"Yes,  there  is  that  between  me  and  the  light." 
He  glared  at  her  black  hood  as  if  to  seize  it; 
Their  eyes  met,  and  she  smiled:     "No,  Lancelot; 
We  are  going  by  two  roads  to  the  same  end ; 
Or  let  us  hope,  at  least,  what  knowledge  hides, 
And  so  believe  it.    We  are  going  somewhere. 
Why  the  new  world  is  not  for  you  and  me, 
I  cannot  say;  but  only  one  was  ours. 
I  think  we  must  have  lived  in  our  one  world 
All  that  earth  had  for  us.    You  are  good  to  me, 
Coming  to  find  me  here  for  the  last  time; 
441 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

For  I  should  have  been  lonely  many  a  night, 
Not  knowing  if  you  cared.     I  do  know  now; 
And  there  is  not  much  else  for  me  to  know 
That  earth  may  tell  me.    I  found  in  the  Tower, 
With  Modred  watching  me,  that  all  you  said 
That  rainy  night  was  true.    There  was  time  there 
To  find  out  everything.    There  were  long  days, 
And  there  were  nights  that  I  should  not  have  said 
God  would  have  made  a  woman  to  endure. 
I  wonder  if  a  woman  lives  who  knows 
All  she  may  do." 

"I  wonder  if  one  woman 
Knows  one  thing  she  may  do,"  Lancelot  said, 
With  a  sad  passion  shining  out  of  him 
While  he  gazed  on  her  beauty,  palled  with  black 
That  hurt  him  like  a  sword.    The  full  blue  eyes 
And  the  white  face  were  there,  and  the  red  lips 
Were  there,  but  there  was  no  gold  anywhere. 
"What  have  you  done  with  your  gold  hair?"  he  said; 
"I  saw  it  shining  all  the  way  from  Dover, 
But  here  I  do  not  see  it.    Shall  I  see  it  ?" — 
Faintly  again  she  smiled:  "Yes,  you  may  see  it 
All  the  way  back  to  Dover;  but  not  here. 
There's  not  much  of  it  here,  and  what  there  is 
Is  not  for  you  to  see." 

"Well,  if  not  here," 

He  said  at  last,  in  a  low  voice  that  shook, 
"Is  there  no  other  place  left  in  the  world  ?" 

"There  is  not  even  the  world  left,  Lancelot, 
For  you  and  me." 

"There  is  France  left,"  he  said. 
His  face  flushed  like  a  boy's,  but  he  stood  firm 
As  a  peak  in  the  sea  and  waited. 
442 


LANCELOT 

"How  many  lives 

Must  a  man  have  in  one  to  make  him  happy?" 
She  asked,  with  a  wan  smile  of  recollection 
That  only  made  the  black  that  was  around 
Pier  calm  face  more  funereal:  "Was  it  you, 
Or  was  it  Gawaine  who  said  once  to  me, 
'We  cannot  make  one  world  of  two,  nor  may  we 
Count  one  life  more  than  one.    Could  we  go  back 
To  the  old  garden'  .  .  .  Was  it  you  who  said  it, 
Or  was  it  Bors?    He  was  always  saying  something. 
It  may  have  been  Bors."    She  was  not  looking  then 
At  Lancelot ;  she  was  looking  at  her  fingers 
In  her  old  way,  as  to  be  sure  again 
How  many  of  them  she  had. 

He  looked  at  her, 

Without  the  power  to  smile,  and  for  the  time 
Forgot  that  he  was  Lancelot:     "Is  it  fair 
For  you  to  drag  that. back,  out  of  its  grave, 
And  hold  it  up  like  this  for  the  small  feast 
Of  a  small  pride?" 

"Yes,  fair  enough  for  a  woman," 
Guinevere  said,  not  seeing  his  eyes.     "How  long 
Do  you  conceive  the  Queen  of  the  Christian  world 
Would  hide  herself  in  France  .  .  ." 

"Why  do  you  pause? 
I  said  it;  I  remember  when  I  said  it; 
And  it  was  not  today.    Why  in  the  name 
Of  grief  should  we  hide  anywhere?    Bells  and  banners 
Are  not  for  our  occasion,  but  in  France 
There  may  be  sights  and  silences  more  fair 
Than  pageants.     There  are  seas  of  difference 
Between  this  land  and  France,  albeit  to  cross  them 
443 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Were  no  immortal  voyage,  had  you  an  eye 
For  France  that  you  had  once." 

"I  have  no  eye 

Today  for  France,  I  shall  have  none  tomorrow; 
And  you  will  have  no  eye  for  France  tomorrow. 
Fatigue  and  loneliness,  and  your  poor  dream 
Of  what  I  was,  have  led  you  to  forget. 
When  you  have  had  your  time  to  think  and  see 
A  little  more,  then  you  will  see  as  I  do ; 
And  if  you  see  France,  I  shall  not  be  there, 
Save  as  a  memory  there.    We  are  done,  you  and  I, 
With  what  we  were.    'Could  we  go  back  again, 
The  fruit  that  we  should  find' — but  you  know  best 
What  we  should  find.    I  am  sorry  for  what  I  said ; 
But  a  light  word,  though  it  cut  one  we  love, 
May  save  ourselves  the  pain  of  a  worse  wound. 
We  are  all  women.    When  you  see  one  woman — 
When  you  see  me — before  you  in  your  fancy, 
See  me  all  white  and  gold,  as  I  was  once. 
I  shall  not  harm  you  then;  I  shall  not  come 
Between  you  and  the  Gleam  that  you  must  follow, 
Whether  you  will  or  not.    There  is  no  place 
For  me  but  where  I  am ;  there  is  no  place 
For  you  save  where  it  is  that  you  are  going. 
If  I  knew  everything  as  I  know  that, 
I  should  know  more  than  Merlin,  who  knew  all, 
And  long  ago,  that  we  are  to  know  now. 
What  more  he  knew  he  may  not  then  have  told 
The  King,  or  anyone, — maybe  not  even  himself; 
Though  Vivian  may  know  something  by  this  time 
That  he  has  told  her.    Have  you  wished,  I  wonder, 
That  I  was  more  like  Yivian,  or  Isolt  ? 
The  dark  ones  are  more  devious  and  more  famous, 
444 


LANCELOT 

And  men  fall  down  more  numerously  before  them — 

Although  I  think  more  men  get  up  again, 

And  go  away  again,  than  away  from  us. 

If  I  were  dark,  I  might  say  otherwise. 

Try  to  be  glad,  even  if  you  are  sorry, 

That  I  was  not  born  dark;  for  I  was  not. 

For  me  there  was  no  dark  until  it  came 

When  the  King  came,  and  with  his  heavy  shadow 

Put  out  the  sun  that  you  made  shine  again 

Before  I  was  to  die.    So  I  forgive 

The  faggots;  I  can  do  no  more  than  that — 

For  you,  or  God."     She  looked  away  from  him 

And  in  the  casement  saw  the  sunshine  dying : 

"The  time  that  we  have  left  will  soon  be  gone; 

When  the  bell  rings,  it  rings  for  you  to  go, 

But  not  for  me  to  go.    It  rings  for  me 

To  stay — and  pray.    I,  who  have  not  prayed  much, 

May  as  well  pray  now.    I  have  not  what  you  have 

To  make  me  see,  though  I  shall  have,  sometime, 

A  new  light  of  my  own.     I  saw  in  the  Tower, 

When  all  was  darkest  and  I  may  have  dreamed, 

A  light  that  gave  to  men  the  eyes  of  Time 

To  read  themselves  in  silence.    Then  it  faded, 

And  the  men  faded.     I  was  there  alone. 

I  shall  not  have  what  you  have,  or  much  else — 

In  this  place.    I  shall  see  in  other  places 

What  is  not  here.    I  shall  not  be  alone. 

And  I  shall  tell  myself  that  you  are  seeing 

All  that  I  cannot  see.    For  the  time  now, 

What  most  I  see  is  that  I  had  no  choice, 

And  that  you  came  to  me.    How  many  years 

Of  purgatory  shall  I  pay  God  for  saying 

This  to  you  here  ?"    Her  words  came  slowly  out, 

And  her  mouth  shook. 

445 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

He  took  her  two  small  hands 
That  were  so  pale  and  empty,  and  so  cold: 
"Poor  child,  I  said  too  much  and  heard  too  little 
Of  what  I  said.    But  when  I  found  you  here, 
So  different,  so  alone,  I  would  have  given 
My  soul  to  be  a  chattel  and  a  gage 
For  dicing  fiends  to  play  for,  could  so  doing 
Have  brought  one  summer  back." 

"When  they  are  gone," 

She  said,  with  grateful  sadness  in  her  eyes, 
"We  do  not  bring  them  back,  or  buy  them  back, 
Even  with  our  souls.    I  see  now  it  is  best 
We  do  not  buy  them  back,  even  with  our  souls." 

A  slow  and  hollow  bell  began  to  sound 
Somewhere  above  them,  and  the  world  became 
For  Lancelot  one  wan  face — Guinevere's  face. 
"When  the  bell  rings,  it  rings  for  you  to  go," 
She  said;  "and  you  are  going  ...  I  am  not. 
Think  of  me  always  as  I  used  to  be, 
All  white  and  gold — for  that  was  what  you  called  me. 
You  may  see  gold  again  when  you  are  gone; 
And  I  shall  not  be  there." — He  drew  her  nearer 
To  kiss  the  quivering  lips  that  were  before  him 
For  the  last  time.    "No,  not  again,"  she  said; 
"I  might  forget  that  I  am  not  alone  .  .  . 
I  shall  not  see  you  in  this  world  again, 
But  I  am  not  alone.    No,  .  .  .  not  alone. 
We  have  had  all  there  was,  and  you  were  kind — 
Even  when  you  tried  so  hard  once  to  be  cruel. 
I  knew  it  then  ...  or  now  I  do.    Good-bye." 
He  crushed  her  cold  white  hands  and  saw  them  falling 
Away  from  him  like  flowers  into  a  grave. 
446 


LANCELOT 

When  she  looked  up  to  see  him,  he  was  gonej 

And  that  was  all  she  saw  till  she  awoke 

In  her  white  cell,  where  the  nuns  carried  her 

With  many  tears  and  many  whisperings. 

"She  was  the  Queen,  and  he  was  Lancelot," 

One  said.     "They  were  great  lovers.    It  is  not  good 

To  know  too  much  of  love.    We  who  love  God 

Alone  are  happiest.     Is  it  not  so,  Mother?" —     . 

"We  who  love  God  alone,  my  child,  are  safest," 

The  Mother  replied;  "and  we  are  not  all  safe 

Until  we  are  all  dead.     We  watch,  and  pray." 

Outside  again,  Lancelot  heard  the  sound 

Of  reapers  he  had  seen.     With  lighter  tread 

He  walked  away  to  them  to  see  them  nearer; 

He  walked  and  heard  again  the  sound  of  thrushes 

Far  off.    He  saw  below  him,  stilled  with  yellow, 

A  world  that  was  not  Arthur's,  and  he  saw 

The  convent  roof;  and  then  he  could  see  nothing 

But  a  wan  face  and  two  dim  lonely  hands 

That  he  had  left  behind.    They  were  down  there, 

Somewhere,  her  poor  white  face  and  hands,  alone. 

"No  man  was  ever  alone  like  that,"  he  thought, 

Not  knowing  what  last  havoc  pity  and  love 

Had  still  to  wreak  on  wisdom.     Gradually, 

In  one  long  wave  it  whelmed  him,  and  then  broke — 

Leaving  him  like  a  lone  man  on  a  reef, 

Staring  for  what  had  been  with  him,  but  now 

Was  gone  and  was  a  white  face  under  the  sea, 

Alive  there,  and  alone — always  alone. 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  the  white  face  was  there, 

But  not  the  gold.    The  gold  would  not  come  back. 

There  were  gold  fields  of  corn  that  lay  around  him, 

But  they  were  not  the  gold  of  Guinevere — 

Though  men  had  once,  for  sake  of  saying  words, 

447 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Prattled  of  corn  about  it.    The  still  face 
Was  there,  and  the  blue  eyes  that  looked  at  him 
Through  all  the  stillness  of  all  distances; 
And  he  could  see  her  lips,  trying  to  say 
Again,  "I  am  not  alone."    And  that  was  all 
His  life  had  said  to  him  that  he  remembered 
While  he  sat  there  with  his  hands  over  his  eyes, 
And  his  heart  aching.    When  he  rose  again 
The  reapers  had  gone  home.    Over  the  land 
Around  him  in  the  twilight  there  was  rest. 
There  was  rest  everywhere;  and  there  was  none 
That  found  his  heart.    "Why  should  I  look  for  peace 
When  I  have  made  the  world  a  ruin  of  war?" 
He  muttered ;  and  a  Voice  within  him  said : 
"Where  the  Light  falls,  death  falls ;  a  world  has  died 
For  you,  that  a  world  may  live.    There  is  no  peace. 
Be  glad  no  man  or  woman  bears  for  ever 
The  burden  of  first  days.    There  is  no  peace." 

A  word  stronger  than  his  willed  him  away 
From  Almesbury.    All  alone  he  rode  that  night, 
Under  the  stars,  led  by  the  living  Voice 
That  would  not  give  him  peace.    Into  the  dark 
He  rode,  but  not  for  Dover.    Under  the  stars, 
Alone,  all  night  he  rode,  out  of  a  world 
That  was  not  his,  or  the  King's;  and  in  the  night 
He  felt  a  burden  lifted  as  he  rode, 
While  he  prayed  he  might  bear  it  for  the  sake 
Of  a  still  face  before  him  that  was  fading, 
Away  in  a  white  loneliness.    He  made, 
Once,  with  groping  hand  as  if  to  touch  it, 
But  a  black  branch  of  leaves  was  all  he  found. 

Now  the  still  face  was  dimmer  than  before, 
And  it  was  not  so  near  him.    He  gazed  hard, 
448 


LANCELOT 

But  through  his  tears  he  could  not  see  it  now; 

And  when  the  tears  were  gone  he  could  see  only 

That  all  he  saw  was  fading,  always  fading; 

And  she  was  there  alone.     She  was  the  world 

That  he  was  losing;  and  the  world  he  sought 

Was  all  a  tale  for  those  who  had  been  living, 

And  had  not  lived.    Once  even  he  turned  his  horse, 

And  would  have  brought  his  army  back  with  him 

To  make  her  free.     They  should  be  free  together. 

But  the  Voice  within  him  said :    "You  are  not  free. 

You  have  come  to  the  world's  end,  and  it  is  best 

You  are  not  free.    Where  the  Light  falls,  death  falls; 

And  in  the  darkness  comes  the  Light."    He  turned 

Again;  and  he  rode  on,  under  the  stars, 

Out  of  the  world,  into  he  knew  not  what, 

Until  a  vision  chilled  him  and  he  saw, 

Now  as  in  Camelot,  long  ago  in  the  garden, 

The  face  of  Galahad  who  had  seen  and  died, 

And  was  alive,  now  in  a  mist  of  gold. 

He  rode  on  into  the  dark,  under  the  stars, 

And  there  were  no  more  faces.    There  was  nothing. 

But  always  in  the  darkness  he  rode  on, 

Alone ;  and  in  the  darkness  came  the  Light. 


449 


THE  THREE  TAVERNS 

(1920) 

To 

Thomas  Sergeant  Perry 
and   Lilla    Cabot   Perry 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

THERE  were  faces  to  remember  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
There  were  faces  unregarded,  there  were  faces  to  forget; 
There  were  fires  of  grief  and  fear  that  are  a  few  forgotten  ashes, 
There  were  sparks  of  recognition  that  are  not  forgotten  yet. 
For  at  first,  with  an  amazed  and  overwhelming  indignation 
At  a  measureless  malfeasance  that  obscurely  willed  it  thus, 
They  were  lost  and  unacquainted — till  they  found  themselves  in 

others, 
Who  had  groped  as  they  were  groping  where  dim  ways  were 

perilous. 

There   were   lives  that   were   as    dark    as    are   the   fears    and 

intuitions 

Of  a  child  who  knows  himself  and  is  alone  with  what  he  knows ; 
There  were  pensioners  of  dreams  and  there  were  debtors  of 

illusions, 

All  to  fail  before  the  triumph  of  a  weed  that  only  grows. 
There  were  thirsting  heirs  of  golden  sieves  that  held  not  wine 

or  water, 

And  had  no  names  in  traffic  or  more  value  there  than  toys : 
There  were  blighted  sons  of  wonder  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
Where  they  suffered  and  still  wondered  why  their  wonder  made 

no  noise. 

There  were  slaves  who  dragged  the  shackles   of  a  precedent 

unbroken, 

Demonstrating  the  fulfilment  of  unalterable  schemes, 
Which  had  been,  before  the  cradle,  Time's  inexorable  tenants 
Of  what  were  now  the  dusty  ruins  of  their  father's  dreams. 

453 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

There  were  these,  and  there  were  many  who  had  stumbled  up 

to  manhood, 
Where  they   saw  too   late   the  road  they   should  have  taken 

long  ago: 
There  were  thwarted  clerks  and  fiddlers  in  the  Valley  of  the 

Shadow, 
The  commemorative  wreckage  of  what  others  did  not  know. 

And  there  were  daughters  older  than  the  mothers  who  had 
borne  them, 

Being  older  in  their  wisdom,  which  is  older  than  the  earth; 

And  they  were  going  forward  only  farther  into  darkness, 

Unrelieved  as  were  the  blasting  obligations  of  their  birth; 

And  among  them,  giving  always  what  was  not  for  their  pos 
session, 

There  were  maidens,  very  quiet,  with  no  quiet  in  their  eyes; 

There  were  daughters  of  the  silence  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Each  an  isolated  item  in  the  family  sacrifice. 

There  were  creepers  among  catacombs  where  dull  regrets  were 

torches, 
Giving  light  enough  to  show  them  what  was  there  upon  the 

shelves — 
Where  there  was  more  for  them  to  see  than  pleasure  would 

remember 

Of  something  that  had  been  alive  and  once  had  been  themselves. 
There  were  some  who  stirred  the  ruins  with  a  solid  imprecation, 
While  as  many  fled  repentance  for  the  promise  of  despair : 
There  were  drinkers  of  wrong  waters   in  the  Valley  of  the 

Shadow, 
And  all  the  sparkling  ways  were  dust  that  once  had  led  them 

there. 

There  were  some  who  knew  the  steps  of  Age  incredibly  beside 
them, 

454 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

And  his  fingers  upon  shoulders  that  had  never  felt  the  wheel; 
And  their  last  of  empty  trophies  was  a  gilded  cup  of  nothing, 
Which  a  contemplating  vagabond  would  not  have  come  to  steal. 
Long  and  often  had  they  figured  for  a  larger  valuation, 
But  the  size  of  their  addition  was  the  balance  of  a  doubt: 
There  were  gentlemen  of  leisure  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
Not  allured  by  retrospection,  disenchanted,  and  played  out. 

And  among  the  dark  endurances  of  unavowed  reprisals 
There  were  silent  eyes  of  envy  that  saw  little  but  saw  well; 
And  over  beauty's  aftermath  of  hazardous  ambitions 
There  were  tears  for  what  had  vanished  as  they  vanished  where 

they  fell. 
Not  assured  of  what  was  theirs,  and   always  hungry  for  the 

nameless, 
There  were  some  whose  only  passion  was  for  Time  who  made 

them  cold: 

There  were  numerous  fair  women  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
Dreaming  rather  less  of  heaven  than  of  hell  when  they  were  old. 

Now  and  then,  as  if  to  scorn  the  common  touch  of  common 

sorrow, 

There  were  some  who  gave  a  few  the  distant  pity  of  a  smile; 
And  another  cloaked  a  soul  as  with  an  ash  of  human  embers, 
Having  covered  thus  a  treasure  that  would  last  him  for  a  while. 
There  were  many  by  the  presence  of  the  many  disaffected, 
Whose  exemption  was  included  in  the  weight  that  others  bore: 
There  were  seekers  after  darkness  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
And  they  alone  were  there  to  find  what  they  were  looking  for. 

So  they  were,  and  so  they  are;  and  as  they  came  are  coming 

others, 

And  among  them  are  the  fearless  and  the  meek  and  the  unborn ; 
And  a  question  that  has  held  us  heretofore  without  an  answer 
May  abide  without  an  answer  until  all  have  ceased  to  mourn. 

455 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

For  the  children  of  the  dark  are  more  to  name  than  are  the 

wretched, 

Or  the  broken,  or  the  weary,  or  the  baffled,  or  the  shamed : 
There   are  builders   of   new   mansions   in  the  Valley   of  the 

Shadow, 
And  among  them  are  the  dying  and  the  blinded  and  the  maimed. 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 

I  SAW  by  looking  in  his  eyes 
That  they  remembered  everything; 
And  this  was  how  I  came  to  know 
That  he  was  here,  still  wandering. 
For  though  the  figure  and  the  scene 
Were  never  to  be  reconciled, 
I  knew  the  man  as  I  had  known 
His  image  when  I  was  a  child. 

With  evidence  at  every  turn, 
I  should  have  held  it  safe  to  guess 
That  all  the  newness  of  New  York 
Had  nothing  new  in  loneliness;    . 
Yet  here  was  one  who  might  be  Noah, 
Or  Nathan,  or  Abimelech, 
Or  Lamech,  out  of  ages  lost, — 
Or,  more  than  all,  Melchizedek. 

Assured  that  he  was  none  of  these, 
I  gave  them  back  their  names  again, 
To  scan  once  more  those  endless  eyes 
Where  all  my  questions  ended  then. 
I  found  in  them  what  they  revealed 
That  I  shall  not  live  to  forget, 
456 


THE  WANDERING  JEW 

And  wondered  if  they  found  in  mine 
Compassion  that  I  might  regret. 

Pity,  I  learned,  was  not  the  least 
Of  time's  offending  benefits 
That  had  now  for  so  long  impugned   " 
The  conservation  of  his  wits: 
Bather  it  was  that  I  should  yield, 
Alone,  the  fealty  that  presents 
The  tribute  of  a  tempered  ear 
To  an  untempered  eloquence. 

Before  I  pondered  long  enough 
On  whence  he  came  and  who  he  was, 
I  trembled  at  his  ringing  wealth 
Of  manifold  anathemas; 
I  wondered,  while  he  seared  the  world, 
What  new  defection  ailed  the  race, 
And  if  it  mattered  how  remote 
Our  fathers  were  from  such  a  place. 

Before  there  was  an  hour  for  me 
To  contemplate  with  less  concern 
The  crumbling  realm  awaiting  us 
Than  his  that  was  beyond  return, 
A  dawning  on  the  dust  of  years 
Had  shaped  with  an  elusive  light 
Mirages  of  remembered  scenes 
That  were  no  longer  for  the  sight. 

For  now  the  gloom  that  hid  the  man 
Became  a  daylight  on  his  wrath, 
And  one  wherein  my  fancy  viewed 
New  lions  ramping  in  his  path. 
The  old  were  dead  and  had  no  fangs, 
457 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Wherefore  he  loved  them — seeing  not     . 
They  were  the  same  that  in  their  time  \ 
Had  eaten  everything  they  caught. 

The  world  around  him  was  a  gift 
Of  anguish  to  his  eyes  and  ears, 
And  one  that  he  had  long  reviled 
As  fit  for  devils,  not  for  seers. 
Where,  then,  was  there  a  place  for  him 
That  on  this  other  side  of  death 
Saw  nothing  good,  as  he  had  seen 
No  good  come  out  of  Nazareth? 

Yet  here  there  was  a  reticence, 
And  I  believe  his  only  one, 
That  hushed  him  as  if  he  beheld 
A  Presence  that  would  not  be  gone. 
In  such  a  silence  he  confessed 
How  much  there  was  to  be  denied ;_. — 
~E£n  he"wbuld  look  at  me  and  live, 
As  others  might  have  looked  and  died. 

As  if  at  last  he  knew  again 
That  he  had  always  known,  his  eyes 
Were  like  to  those  of  one  who  gazed 
On  those  of  One  who  never  dies. 
For  such  a  moment  he  revealed 
What  life  has  in  it  to  be  lost;. 
And  I  could  ask  if  what  I  saw, 
Before  me  there,  was  man  or  ghost. 

He  may  have  died  so  many  times 
That  all  there  was  of  him  to  see 
Was  pride,  that  kept  itself  alive 
As  too  rebellious  to  be  free; 
458 


NEIGHBORS 

He  may  have  told,  when  more  than  once 
Humility  seemed  imminent, 
How  many  a  lonely  time  in  vain 
The  Second  Coming  came  and  went. 

Whether  he  still  defies  or  not 
The  failure  of  an  angry  task 
That  relegates  him  out  of  time 
To  chaos,  I  can  only  ask. 
But  as  I  knew  him,  so  he  was; 
And  somewhere  among  men  to-day 
Those  old,  unyielding  eyes  may  flash, 
And  flinch — and  look  the  other  way. 


NEIGHBORS 

As  often  as  we  thought  of  her, 

We  thought  of  a  gray  life 
That  made  a  quaint  economist 

Of  a  wolf -haunted  wife; 
We  made  the  best  of  all  she  bore 

That  was  not  ours  to  bear, 
And  honored  her  for  wearing  things 

That  were  not  things  to  wear. 

There  was  a  distance  in  her  look 

That  made  us  look  again; 
And  if  she  smiled,  we  might  believe 

That  we  had  looked  in  vain. 
Rarely  she  came  inside  our  doors, 

And  had  not  long  to  stay; 
And  when  she  left,  it  seemed  somehow 

That  she  was  far  away. 
459 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

At  last,  when  we  had  all  forgot 

That  all  is  here  to  change, 
A  shadow  on  the  commonplace 

Was  for  a  moment  strange. 
Yet  there  was  nothing  for  surprise, 

Nor  much  that  need  be  told: 
Love,  with  his  gift  of  pain,  had  given 

More  than  one  heart  could  hold. 


THE  MILL 

THE  miller's  wife  had  waited  long, 

The  tea  was  cold,  the  fire  was  dead; 
And  there  might  yet  be  nothing  wrong 

In  how  he  went  and  what  he  said: 
"There  are  no  millers  any  more," 

Was  all  that  she  heard  him  say; 
And  he  had  lingered  at  the  door 

So  long  that  it  seemed  yesterday. 

Sick  with  a  fear  that  had  no  form 

She  knew  that  she  was  there  at  last; 
And  in  the  mill  there  was  a  warm 

And  mealy  fragrance  of  the  past. 
What  else  there  was  would  only  seem 

To  say  again  what  he  had  meant; 
And  what  was  hanging  from  a  beam 

Would  not  have  heeded  where  she  went 

And  if  she  thought  it  followed  her, 
She  may  have  reasoned  in  the  dark 

That  one  way  of  the  few  there  were 
Would  hide  her  and  would  leave  no  mark : 
460 


THE  THREE  TAVERNS 

Black  water,  smooth  above  the  weir 
Like  starry  velvet  in  the  night, 

Though  ruffled  once,  would  soon  appear 
The  same  as  ever  to  the  sight. 


THE  DARK  HILLS 

DARK  hills  at  evening  in  the  west, 
Where  sunset  hovers  like  a  sound 
Of  golden  horns  that  sang  to  rest 
Old  bones  of  warriors  under  ground, 
Far  now  from  all  the  bannered  ways 
Where  flash  the  legions  of  the  sun, 
You  fade — as  if  the  last  of  days 
Were  fading,  and  all  wars  were  done. 


THE  THREE  TAVERNS 

When  the  brethren  heard  of  us,  they  came  to  meet  us  as  far  as 
Appii  Forum,  and  The  Three  Taverns. 

(Acts  xxviii,  15) 

HERODION,  Apelles,  Amplias, 
And  Andronicus?    Is  it  you  I  see — 
At  last  ?    And  is  it  you  now  that  are  gazing 
As  if  in  doubt  of  me?    Was  I  not  saying 
That  I  should  come  to  Eome?    I  did  say  that; 
And  I  said  furthermore  that  I  should  go 
On  westward,  where  the  gateway  of  the  world 
Lets  in  the  central  sea.    I  did  say  that, 
But  I  say  only,  now,  that  I  am  Paul — 
461 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

A  prisoner  of  the  Law,  and  of  the  Lord 

A  voice  made  free.    If  there  be  time  enough 

To  live,  I  may  have  more  to  tell  you  then 

Of  western  matters.    I  go  now  to  Eome, 

Where  Caesar  waits  for  me,  and  I  shall  wait, 

And  Csesar  knows  how  long.    In  Cresarea 

There  was  a  legend  of  Agrippa  saying 

In  a  light  way  to  Festus,  having  heard 

My  deposition,  that  I  might  be  free, 

Had  I  stayed  free  of  Caesar ;  but  the  word 

Of  God  would  have  it  as  you  see  it  is —  j 

And  here  I  am.     The  cup  that  I  shall  drink 

Is  mine  to  drink — the  moment  or  the  place 

Not  mine  to  say.    If  it  be  now  in  Rome, 

Be  it  now  in  Rome;  and  if  your  faith  exceed 

The  shadow  cast  of  hope,  say  not  of  me 

Too  surely  or  too  soon  that  years  and  shipwreck, 

And  all  the  many  deserts  I  have  crossed 

That  are  not  named  or  regioned,  have  undone 

Beyond  the  brevities  of  our  mortal  healing 

The  part  of  me  that  is  the  least  of  me. 

You  see  an  older  man  than  he  who  fell 

Prone  to  the  earth  when  he  was  nigh  Damascus, 

Where  the  great  light  came  down;  yet  I  am  he 

That  fell,  and  he  that  saw,  and  he  that  heard. 

And  I  am  here,  at  last;  and  if  at  last 

I  give  myself  to  make  another  crumb 

For  this  pernicious  feast  of  time  and  men — 

Well,  I  have  seen  too  much  of  time  and  men 

To  fear  the  ravening  or  the  wrath  of  either. 

Yes,  it  is  Paul  you  see — the  Saul  of  Tarsus 
That  was  a  fiery  Jew,  and  had  men  slain 
For  saying  Something  was  beyond  the  Law, 
And  in  ourselves.    I  fed  my  suffering  soul 
462 


THE  THREE  TAVERNS 


Upon  the  Law  till  I  went  famishing, 
Not  knowing  that  I  starved.     How  should  I  know, 
More  then  than  any,  that  the  food  I  had — 
What  else  it  may  have  been — was  not  for  me? 
My  fathers  and  their  fathers  and  their  fathers 
Had  found  it  good,  and  said  there  was  no  other, 
And  I  was  of  the  line.    When  Stephen  fell, 
Among  the  stones  that  crushed  his  life  away, 
There  was  no  place  alive  that  I  could  see 
For  such  a  man.    Why  should  a  man  be  given 
To  live  beyond  the  Law  ?    So  I  said  then, 
As  men  say  now  to  me.    How  then  do  I 
Persist  in  living  ?    Is  that  what  you  ask  ? 
If  so,  let  my  appearance  be  for  you 
No  living  answer;  for  Time  writes  of  death 
On  men  before  they  die,  and  what  you  see 
Is  not  the  man.    The  man  that  you  see  not  •• 
Thejnan  within, t^  man—is  jrfmgC«tiw; 
ThdughTTatred  would  have  ended,  long  ago, 
The  bane  of  his  activities.    I  have  lived, 
Because  the  faith  within  me  that  is  life 
Endures  to  live,  and  shall,  till  soon  or  late, 
Death,  like  a  friend  unseen,  shall  say  to  me 
My  toil  is  over  and  my  work  begun. 

How  often,  and  how  many  a  time  again, 
Have  I  said  I  should  be  with  you  in  Borne! 
He  who  is  always  coming  never  comes, 
Or  comes  too  late,  you  may  have  told  yourselves; 
And  I  may  tell  you  now  that  after  me, 
Whether  I  stay  for  little  or  for  long, 
The  wolves  are  coming.    Have  an  eye  for  them, 
And  a  more  careful  ear  for  their  confusion 
Than  you  need  have  much  longer  for  the  sound 
Of  what  I  tell  you — should  I  live  to  say 
463 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

More  than  I  say  to  Caesar.    What  I  know 
Is  down  for  you  to  read  in  what  is  written; 
And  if  I  cloud  a  little  with  my  own 
Mortality  the  gleam  that  is  immortal, 
I  do  it  only  because  I  am  I — 
Being  on  earth  and  of  it,  in  so  far 
As  time  flays  yet  the  remnant.    This  you  know; 
And  if  I  sting  men,  as  I  do  sometimes, 
With  a  sharp  word  that  hurts,  it  is  because 
Man's  habit  is  to  feel  before  he  sees ; 
And  I  am  of  a  race  that  feels.    Moreover, 
The  world  is  here  for  what  is  not  yet  here 
For  more  than  are  a  few;  and  even  in  Rome, 
Where  men  are  so  enamored  of  the  Cross 
That  fame  has  echoed,  and  increasingly, 
The  music  of  your  love  and  of  your  faith 
To  foreign  ears  that  are  as  far  away 
As  Antioch  and  Haran,  yet  I  wonder 
How  much  of  love  you  know,  and  if  your  faith 
Be  the  shut  fruit  of  words.     If  so,  remember 
Words  are  but  shells  unfilled.    Jews  have  at  least 
A  Law  to  make  them  sorry  they  were  born 
If  they  go  long  without  it;  and  these  Gentiles, 
For  the  first  time  in  shrieking  history, 
Have  love  and  law  together,  if  so  they  will, 
For  their  defense  and  their  immunity 
In  these  last  days.    Rome,  if  I  know  the  name, 
Will  have  anon  a  crown  of  thorns  and  fire 
Made  ready  for  the  wreathing  of  new  masters, 
Of  whom  we  are  appointed,  you  and  I, — 
And  you  are  still  to  be  when  I  am  gone, 
Should  I  go  presently.     Let  the  word  fall, 
Meanwhile,  upon  the  dragon-ridden  field 
Of  circumstance,  either  to  live  or  die; 
Concerning  which  there  is  a  parable, 
464 


THE  THREE  TAVERNS 

Made  easy  for  the  comfort  and  attention 
Of  those  who  preach,  fearing  they  preach  in  vain. 
You  are  to  plant,  and  then  to  plant  again 
Where  you  have  gathered,  gathering  as  you  go; 
For  you  are  in  the  fields  that  are  eternal, 
And  you  have  not  the  burden  of  the  Lord 
Upon  your  mortal  shoulders.     What  you  have 
Is  a  light  yoke,  made  lighter  by  the  wearing, 
Till  it  shall  have  the  wonder  and  the  weight 
Of  a  clear  jewel,  shining  with  a  light 
Wherein  the  sun  and  all  the  fiery  stars 
May  soon  be  fading.     When  Gamaliel  said 
That  if  they  be  of  men  these  things  are  nothing 
But  if  they  be  of  God,  they  are  for  none 
To  overthrow,  he  spoke  as  a  good  Jew, 
And  one  who  stayed  a  Jew;  and  he  said  all. 
And  you  know,  by  the  temper  of  your  faith, 
How  far  the  fire  is  in  you  that  I  felt 
Before  I  knew  Damascus.     A  word  here, 
Or  there,  or  not  there,  or  not  anywhere, 
Is  not  the  Word  that  lives  and  is  the  life; 
And  you,  therefore,  need  weary  not  yourselves 
With  jealous  aches  of  others.     If  the  world 
Were  not  a  world  of  aches  and  innovations, 
Attainment  would  have  no  more  joy  of  it. 
There  will  be  creeds  and  schisms,  creeds  in  creeds, 
And  schisms  in  schisms;  myriads  will  be  done 
To  death  because  a  farthing  has  two  sides, 
And  is  at  last  a  farthing.     Telling  you  this, 
I,  who  bid  men  to  live,  appeal  to  Ca3sar. 
Once  I  had  said  the  ways  of  God  were  dark, 
Meaning  by  that  the  dark  ways  of  the  Law. 
Such  is  the  Glory  of  our  tribulations; 
For  the  Law  kills  the  flesh  that  kills  the  Law, 
And  we  are  then  alive.    We  have  eyes  then; 
465 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  we  have  then  the  Cross  between  two  worlds — 

To  guide  us,  or  to  blind  us  for  a  time, 

Till  we  have  eyes  indeed.    The  fire  that  smites 

A  few  on  highways,  changing  all  at  once, 

Is  not  for  all.    The  power  that  holds  the  world 

Away  from  God  that  holds  himself  away — 

Farther  away  than  all  your  works  and  words 

Are  like  to  fly  without  the  wings  of  faith — 

Was  not,  nor  ever  shall  be,  a  small  hazard 

Enlivening  the  ways  of  easy  leisure 

Or  the  cold  road  of  knowledge.    When  our  eyes 

Have  wisdom,  we  see  more  than  we  remember; 

And  the  old  world  of  our  captivities 

May  then  become  a  smitten  glimpse  of  ruin, 

Like  one  where  vanished  hewers  have  had  their  day 

Of  wrath  on  Lebanon.    Before  we  see, 

Meanwhile,  we  suffer ;  and  I  come  to  you, 

At  last,  through  many  storms  and  through  much  night. 

Yet  whatsoever  I  have  undergone, 
My  keepers  in  this  instance  are  not  hard. 
But  for  the  chance  of  an  ingratitude, 
I  might  indeed  be  curious  of  their  mercy, 
And  fearful  of  their  leisure  while  I  wait, 
A  few  leagues  out  of  Eome.    Men  go  to  Rome, 
Not  always  to  return — but  not  that  now. 
Meanwhile,  I  seem  to  think  you  look  at  me 
With  eyes  that  are  at  last  more  credulous 
Of  my  identity.    You  remark  in  me 
No  sort  of  leaping  giant,  though  some  words 
Of  mine  to  you  from  Corinth  may  have  leapt 
A  little  through  your  eyes  into  your  soul. 
I  trust  they  were  alive,  and  are  alive 
Today;  for  there  be  none  that  shall  indite 
So  much  of  nothing  as  the  man  of  words 
466 


THE  THREE  TAVERNS 

Who  writes  in  the  Lord's  name  for  his  name's  sake 

And  has  not  in  his  blood  the  fire  of  time 

To  warm  eternity.    Let  such  a  man — 

If  once  the  light  is  in  him  and  endures — 

Content  himself  to  be  the  general  man, 

Set  free  to  sift  the  decencies  and  thereby 

To  learn,  except  he  be  one  set  aside 

For  sorrow,  more  of  pleasure  than  of  pain; 

Though  if  his  light  be  not  the  light  indeed, 

But  a  brief  shine  that  never  really  was, 

And  fails,  leaving  him  worse  than  where  he  was, 

Then  shall  he  be  of  all  men  destitute. 

And  here  were  not  an  issue  for  much  ink, 

Or  much  offending  faction  among  scribes. 

The  Kingdom  is  within  us,  we  are  told; 
And  when  I  say  to  you  that  we  possess  it 
In  such  a  measure  as  faith  makes  it  ours, 
I  say  it  with  a  sinner's  privilege 
Of  having  seen  and  heard,  and  seen  again, 
After  a  darkness;  and  if  I  affirm 
To  the  last  hour  that  faith  affords  alone 
The  Kingdom  entrance  and  an  entertainment, 
I  do  not  see  myself  as  one  who  says 
To  man  that  he  shall  sit  with  folded  hands 
Against  the  Coming.    If  I  be  anything, 
I  move  a  driven  agent  among  my  kind, 
Establishing  by  the  faith  of  Abraham, 
And  by  the  grace  of  their  necessities, 
The  clamoring  word  that  is  the  word  of  life 
Nearer  than  heretofore  to  the  solution 
Of  their  tomb-serving  doubts.    If  I  have  loosed 
A  shaft  of  language  that  has  flown  sometimes 
A  little  higher  than  the  hearts  and  heads 
Of  nature's  minions,  it  will  yet  be  heard, 
467 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Like  a  new  song  that  waits  for  distant  ears. 

I  cannot  be  the  man  that  I  am  not; 

And  while  I  own  that  earth  is  my  affliction, 

I  am  a  man  of  earth,  who  says  not  all 

To  all  alike.    That  were  impossible. 

Even  as  it  were  so  that  He  should  plant 

A  larger  garden  first.     But  you  today 

Are  for  the  larger  sowing;  and  your  seed, 

A  little  mixed,  will  have,  as  He  foresaw, 

The  foreign  harvest  of  a  wider  growth, 

And  one  without  an  end.    Many  there  are, 

And  are  to  be,  that  shall  partake  of  it, 

Though  none  may  share  it  with  an  understanding 

That  is  not  his  alone.    We  are  all  alone; 

And  yet  we  are  all  parcelled  of  one  order — 

Jew,  Gentile,  or  barbarian  in  the  dark 

Of  wildernesses  that  are  not  so  much 

As  names  yet  in  a  book.    And  there  are  many, 

Finding  at  last  that  words  are  not  the  Word, 

And  finding  only  that,  will  flourish  aloft, 

Like  heads  of  captured  Pharisees  on  pikes, 

Our  contradictions  and  discrepancies; 

And  there  are  many  more  will  hang  themselves 

Upon  the  letter,  seeing  not  in  the  Word 

The  friend  of  all  who  fail,  and  in  their  faith 

A  sword  of  excellence  to  cut  them  down. 

As  long  as  there  are  glasses  that  are  dark — 
And  there  are  many — we  see  darkly  through  them; 
All  which  have  I  conceded  and  set  down 
In  words  that  have  no  shadow.    What  is  dark 
Is  dark,  and  we  may  not  say  otherwise; 
Yet  what  may  be  as  dark  as  a  lost  fire 
For  one  of  us,  may  still  be  for  another 
A  coming  gleam  across  the  gulf  of  ages, 
468 


THE  THREE  TAVERNS 

And  a  way  home  from  shipwreck  to  the  shore; 
And  so,  through  pangs  and  ills  and  desperations, 
There  may  be  light  for  all.     There  shall  be  light. 
As  much  as  that,  you  know.     You  cannot  say 
This  woman  or  that  man  will  be  the  next 
On  whom  it  falls ;  you  are  not  here  for  that. 
You  ministration  is  to  be  for  others 
The  firing  of  a  rush  that  may  for  them 
Be  soon  the  fire  itself.     The  few  at  first 
Are  fighting  for  the  multitude  at  last; 
Therefore  remember  what  Gamaliel  said 
Before  you,  when  the  sick  were  lying  down 
In  streets  all  night  for  Peter's  passing  shadow. 
Fight,  and  say  what  you  feel;  say  more  than  words. 
Give  men  to  know  that  even  their  days  of  earth 
To  come  are  more  than  ages  that  are  gone. 
Say  what  you  feel,  while  you  have  time  to  say  it. 
Eternity  will  answer  for  itself, 
Without  your  intercession;  yet  the  way 
For  many  is  a  long  one,  and  as  dark, 
Meanwhile,  as  dreams  of  hell.     See  not  your  toil 
Too  much,  and  if  I  be  away  from  you, 
Think  of  me  as  a  brother  to  yourselves, 
Of  many  blemishes.     Beware  of  stoics, 
And  give  your  left  hand  to  grammarians; 
And  when  you  seem,  as  many  a  time  you  may, 
To  have  no  other  friend  than  hope,  remember 
That  you  are  not  the  first,  or  yet  the  last. 

The  best  of  life,  until  we  see  beyond 
The  shadows  of  ourselves  (and  they  are  less 
Than  even  the  blindest  of  indignant  eyes 
Would  have  them)  is  in  what  we  do  not  know. 
Make,  then,  for  all  your  fears  a  place  to  sleep 
With  all  your  faded  sins;  nor  think  yourselves 
469 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Egregious  and  alone  for  your  defects 
Of  youth  and  yesterday.     I  was  young  once; 
And  there's  a  question  if  you  played  the  fool 
With  a  more  fervid  and  inherent  zeal 
Than  I  have  in  my  story  to  remember, 
Or  gave  your  necks  to  folly's  conquering  foot, 
Or  flung  yourselves  with  an  unstudied  aim, 
More  frequently  than  I.     Never  mind  that. 
Man's  little  house  of  days  will  hold  enough, 
Sometimes,  to  make  him  wish  it  were  not  his, 
But  it  will  not  hold  all.    Things  that  are  dead 
Are  best  without  it,  and  they  own  their  death 
By  virtue  of  their  dying.    Let  them  go, — 
But  think  you  not  the  world  is  ashes  yet, 
And  you  have  all  the  fire.    The  world  is  here 
Today,  and  it  may  not  be  gone  tomorrow; 
For  there  are  millions,  and  there  may  be  more, 
To  make  in  turn  a  various  estimation 
Of  its  old  ills  and  ashes,  and  the  traps 
Of  its  apparent  wrath.    Many  with  ears 
That  hear  not  yet,  shall  have  ears  given  to  them, 
And  then  they  shall  hear  strangely.     Many  with  eyes 
That  are  incredulous  of  the  Mystery 
Shall  yet  be  driven  to  feel,  and  then  to  read 
Where  language  has  an  end  and  is  a  veil, 
Not  woven  of  our  words.     Many  that  hate 
Their  kind  are  soon  to  know  that  without  love 
Their  faith  is  but  the  perjured  name  of  nothing. 
I  that  have  done  some  hating  in  my  time 
See  now  no  time  for  hate;  I  that  have  left, 
Fading  behind  me  like  familiar  lights 
That  are  to  shine  no  more  for  my  returning, 
Home,  friends,  and  honors, — I  that  have  lost  all  else 
For  wisdom,  and  the  wealth  of  it,  say  now 
To  you  that  out  of  wisdom  has  come  love, 
470 


DEMOS 

That  measures  and  is  of  itself  the  measure 

Of  works  and  hope  and  faith.     Your  longest  hours 

Are  not  so  long  that  you  may  torture  them 

And  harass  not  yourselves;  and  the  last  days 

Are  on  the  way  that  you  prepare  for  them, 

And  was  prepared  for  you,  here  in  a  world 

Where  you  have  sinned  and  suffered,  striven  and  seen. 

If  you  be  not  so  hot  for  counting  them 

Before  they  come  that  you  consume  yourselves, 

Peace  may  attend  you  all  in  these  last  days — 

And  me,  as  well  as  you.    Yes,  even  in  Rome. 

Well,  I  have  talked  and  rested,  though  I  fear 

My  rest  has  not  been  yours ;  in  which  event, 

Forgive  one  who  is  only  seven  leagues 

From  Caesar.     When  I  told  you  I  should  come, 

I  did  not  see  myself  the  criminal 

You  contemplate,  for  seeing  beyond  the  Law 

That  which  the  Law  saw  not.     But  this,  indeed, 

Was  good  of  you,  and  I  shall  not  forget; 

No,  I  shall  not  forget  you  came  so  far 

To  meet  a  man  so  dangerous.    Well,  farewell. 

They  come  to  tell  me  I  am  going  now — 

With  them.     I  hope  that  we  shall  meet  again, 

But  none  may  say  what  he  shall  find  in  Rome. 


DEMOS 

I 

ALL  you  that  are  enamored  of  my  name 

And  least  intent  on  what  most  I  require, 
Beware;  for  my  design  and  your  desire, 

Deplorably,  are  not  as  yet  the  same. 
471 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Beware,  I  say,  the  failure  and  the  shame 

Of  losing  that  for  which  you  now  aspire 
So  blindly,  and  of  hazarding  entire 

The  gift  that  I  was  bringing  when  I  came. 

Give  as  I  will,  I  cannot  give  you  sight 

Whereby  to  see  that  with  you  there  are  some 
To  lead  you,  and  be  led.    But  they  are  dumb 

Before  the  wrangling  and  the  shrill  delight 
Of  your  deliverance  that  has  not  come, 

And  shall  not,  if  I  fail  you — as  I  might. 

II 

So  little  have  you  seen  of  what  awaits 
Your  fevered  glimpse  of  a  democracy 
Confused  and  foiled  with  an  equality 

Not  equal  to  the  envy  it  creates, 

That  you  see  not  how  near  you  are  the  gates 
Of  an  old  king  who  listens  fearfully 
To  you  that  are  outside  and  are  to  be 

The  noisy  lords  of  imminent  estates. 

Rather  be  then  your  prayer  that  you  shall  have 
Your  kingdom  undishonored.  Having  all, 
See  not  the  great  among  you  for  the  small, 

But  hear  their  silence;  for  the  few  shall  save 
The  many,  or  the  many  are  to  fall — 

Still  to  be  wrangling  in  a  noisy  grave. 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 

UNYIELDING  in  the  pride  of  his  defiance, 
Afloat  with  none  to  serve  or  to  command, 

472 


TACT 

Lord  of  himself  at  last,  and  all  by  Science, 
He  seeks  the  Vanished  Land. 

Alone,  by  the  one  light  of  his  one  thought, 

He  steers  to  find  the  shore  from  which  we  came, 

Fearless  of  in  what  coil  he  may  be  caught 
On  seas  that  have  no  name. 

Into  the  night  he  sails ;  and  after  night 

There  is  a  dawning,  though  there  be  no  sun; 

Wherefore,  with  nothing  but  himself  in  sight, 
Unsighted,  he  sails  on. 

At  last  there  is  a  lifting  of  the  cloud 

Between  the  flood  before  him  and  the  sky; 

And  then — though  he  may  curse  the  Power  aloud 
That  has  no  power  to  die — 

He  steers  himself  away  from  what  is  haunted 
By  the  old  ghost  of  what  has  been  before, — 

Abandoning,  as  always,  and  undaunted, 
One  fog-walled  island  more. 


TACT 

OBSERVANT  of  the  way  she  told 

So  much  of  what  was  true, 
No  vanity  could  long  withhold 

Regard  that  was  her  due: 
She  spared   him   the  familiar  guile, 

So  easily  achieved, 
That  only  made  a  man  to  smile 

And  left  him  undeceived. 
473 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Aware  that  all  imagining 

Of  more  than  what  she  meant 
Would  urge   an   end   of   everything, 

He  stayed;  and  when  he  went, 
They  parted  with  a  merry  word 

That  was  to  him  as  light 
As  any  that  was  ever  heard 

Upon  a  starry  night. 

She  smiled  a  little,  knowing  well 

That  he  would  not  remark 
That  ruins  of  a  day  that  fell 

Around  her  in  the  dark: 
He  saw  no  ruins  anywhere, 

Nor  fancied  there  were  scars 
On  anyone  who  lingered  there, 

Alone  below  the  stars. 


ON  THE  WAY 

(PHILADELPHIA,  1794) 

NOTE. — The  following  imaginary  dialogue  between  Alexander 
Hamilton  and  Aaron  Burr,  which  is  not  based  upon  any  specific  in 
cident  in  American  history,  may  be  supposed  to  have  occurred  a 
few  months  previous  to  Hamilton's  retirement  from  Washington's 
Cabinet  in  1795  and  a  few  years  before  the  political  ingenuities  of 
Burr — who  has  been  characterized,  without  much  exaggeration,  as 
the  inventor  of  American  politics — began  to  be  conspicuously  for 
midable  to  the  Federalists.  These  activities  on  the  part  of  Burr 
resulted,  as  the  reader  will  remember,  in  the  Burr-Jefferson  tie 
for  the  Presidency  in  1800,  and  finally  in  the  Burr-Hamilton  duel 
at  Weehawken  in  1804. 

BURR 

HAMILTON,  if  he  rides  you  down,  remember 
That  I  was  here  to  speak,  and  so  to  save 

474 


ON  THE  WAY 

Your  fabric  from  catastrophe.     That's  good; 

For  I  perceive  that  you  observe  him  also. 

A  President,  a-riding  of  his  horse, 

May  dust  a  General  and  be  forgiven; 

But  why  be  dusted — when  we're  all  alike, 

All  equal,  and  all  happy?     Here  he  comes — 

And  there  he  goes.    And  we,  by  your  new  patent, 

Would  seem  to  be  two  kings  here  by  the  wayside, 

With  our  two  hats  off  to  his  Excellency. 

Why  not  his  Majesty,  and  done  with  it? 

Forgive  me  if  I  shook  your  meditation, 

But  you  that  weld  our  credit  should  have  eyes 

To  see  what's  coming.    Bury  me  first  if  /  do. 


HAMILTON 

There's  always  in  some  pocket  of  your  brain 

A  care  for  me;  wherefore  my  gratitude 

For  your  attention  is  commensurate 

With  your  concern.    Yes,  Burr,  we  are  two  kings ; 

We  are  as  royal  as  two  ditch-diggers; 

But  owe  me  not  your  sceptre.     These  are  the  days 

When  first  a  few  seem  all;  but  if  we  live 

We  may  again  be  seen  to  be  the  few 

That  we  have  always  been.    These  are  the  days 

When  men  forget  the  stars,  and  are  forgotten. 

BURR 

But  why  forget  them  ?    They're  the  same  that  winked 

Upon  the  world  when  Alcibiades 

Cut  off  his  dog's  tail  to  induce  distinction. 

There  are  dogs  yet,  and  Alcibiades 

Is  not  forgotten. 

475 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

HAMILTON 

Yes,  there  are  dogs  enough, 
God  knows;  and  I  can  hear  them  in  my  dreams. 

BURR 

Never  a  doubt.     But  what  you  hear  the  most 
Is  your  new  music,  something  out  of  tune 
With  your  intention.    How  in  the  name  of  Cain, 
I  seem  to  hear  you  ask,  are  men  to  dance, 
When  all  men  are  musicians.    Tell  me  that, 
I  hear  you  saying,  and  I'll  tell  you  the  name 
Of  Samson's  mother.    But  why  shroud  yourself 
Before  the  coffin  comes  ?    For  all  you  know, 
The  tree  that  is  to  fall  for  your  last  house 
Is  now  a  sapling.    You  may  have  to  wait 
So  long  as  to  be  sorry;  though  I  doubt  it, 
For  you  are  not  at  home  in  your  new  Eden 
Where  chilly  whispers  of  a  likely  frost 
Accumulate  already  in  the  air. 
I  think  a  touch  of  ermine,  Hamilton, 
Would  be  for  you  in  your  autumnal  mood 
A  pleasant  sort  of  warmth  along  the  shoulders. 

HAMILTON 

If  so  it  is  you  think,  you  may  as  well 
Give  over  thinking.    We  are  done  with  ermine. 
What  I  fear  most  is  not  the  multitude, 
But  those  who  are  to  loop  it  with  a  string 
That  has  one  end  in  France  and  one  end  here. 
I'm  not  so  fortified  with  observation 
That  I  could  swear  that  more  than  half  a  score 
Among  us  who  see  lightning  see  that  ruin 
Is  not  the  work  of  thunder.    Since  the  world 
476 


ON  THE  WAY 

Was  ordered,  there  was  never  a  long  pause 
For  caution  between  doing  and  undoing. 

BURK 

Go  on,  sir;  my  attention  is  a  trap 
Set  for  the  catching  of  all  compliments 
To  Monticello,  and  all  else  abroad 
That  has  a  name  or  an  identity. 

HAMILTON 

I  leave  to  you  the  names — there  are  too  many; 
Yet  one  there  is  to  sift  and  hold  apart, 
As  now  I  see.    There  comes  at  last  a  glimmer 
That  is  not  always  clouded,  or  too  late. 
But  I  was  near  and  young,  and  had  the  reins 
To  play  with  while  he  manned  a  team  so  raw 
That  only  God  knows  where  the  end  had  been 
Of  all  that  riding  without  Washington. 
There  was  a  nation  in  the  man  who  passed  us, 
If  there  was  not  a  world.     I  may  have  driven 
Since  then  some  restive  horses,  and  alone, 
And  through  a  splashing  of  abundant  mud; 
But  he  who  made  the  dust  that  sets  you  on 
To  coughing,  made  the  road.     Now  it  seems  dry, 
And  in  a  measure  safe. 

BURR 

Here's  a  new  tune 

From  Hamilton.    Has  your  caution  all  at  once, 
And  over  night,  grown  till  it  wrecks  the  cradle? 
I  have  forgotten  what  my  father  said 
When  I  was  born,  but  there's  a  rustling  of  it 
Among  my  memories,  and  it  makes  a  noise 

477 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

About  as  loud  as  all  that  I  have  held 
And  fondled  heretofore  of  your  same  caution. 
But  that's  affairs,  not  feelings.    If  our  friends 
Guessed  half  we  say  of  them,  our  enemies 
Would  itch  in  our  friends'  jackets.    Howsoever, 
The  world  is  of  a  sudden  on  its  head, 
And  all  are  spilled — unless  you  cling  alone 
With  Washington.    Ask  Adams  about  that. 

HAMILTON 

We'll  not  ask  Adams  about  anything. 
We  fish  for  lizards  when  we  choose  to  ask 
For  what  we  know  already  is  not  coming, 
And  we  must  eat  the  answer.    Where's  the  use 
Of  asking  when  this  man  says  everything, 
With  all  his  tongues  of  silence? 

BURR 

I  dare  say. 

I  dare  say,  but  I  won't.    One  of  those  tongues 
I'll  borrow  for  the  nonce.     He'll  never  miss  it. 
We  mean  his  Western  Majesty,  King  George. 

HAMILTON 

I  mean  the  man  who  rode  by  on  his  horse. 
I'll  beg  of  you  the  meed  of  your  indulgence 
If  I  should  say  this  planet  may  have  done 
A  deal  of  weary  whirling  when  at  last, 
If  ever,  Time  shall  aggregate  again 
A  majesty  like  his  that  has  no  name. 

BURR 

Then  you  concede  his  Majesty?    That's  good, 

And  what  of  yours?    Here  are  two  majesties. 

478 


ON  THE  WAY 

Favor  the  Left  a  little,  Hamilton, 

Or  you'll  be  floundering  in  the  ditch  that  waits 

For  riders  who  forget  where  they  are  riding. 

If  we  and  France,  as  you  anticipate, 

Must  eat  each  other,  what  Caesar,  if  not  yourself, 

Do  you  see  for  the  master  of  the  feast? 

There  may  be  a  place  waiting  on  your  head 

For  laurel  thick  as  Nero's.     You  don't  know. 

I  have  not  crossed  your  glory,  though  I  might 

If  I  saw  thrones  at  auction. 

HAMILTON 

Yes,  you  might. 

If  war  is  on  the  way,  I  shall  be — here ; 
And  I've  no  vision  of  your  distant  heels. 

BURR 

I  see  that  I  shall  take  an  inference 
To  bed  with  me  to-night  to  keep  me  warm. 
I  thank  you,  Hamilton,  and  I  approve 
Your  fealty  to  the  aggregated  greatness 
Of  him  you  lean  on  while  he  leans  on  you. 

HAMILTON 

This  easy  phrasing  is  a  game  of  yours 
That  you  may  win  to  lose.    I  beg  your  pardon, 
But  you  that  have  the  sight  will  not  employ 
The  will  to  see  with  it.    If  you  did  so, 
There  might  be  fewer  ditches  dug  for  others 
In  your  perspective;  and  there  might  be  fewer 
Contemporary  motes  of  prejudice 
Between  you  and  the  man  who  made  the  dust. 
Call  him  a  genius  or  a  gentleman, 

479 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

A  prophet  or  a  builder,  or  what  not, 

But  hold  your  disposition  of?  the  balance, 

And  weigh  him  in  the  light.     Once  (I  believe 

I  tell  you  nothing  new  to  your  surmise, 

Or  to  the  tongues  of  towns  and  villages) 

I  nourished  with  an  adolescent  fancy — 

Surely  forgivable  to  you,  my  friend — 

An  innocent  and  amiable  conviction 

That  I  was,  by  the  grace  of  honest  fortune, 

A  savior  at  his  elbow  through  the  war, 

Where  I  might  have  observed,  more  than  I  did, 

Patience  and  wholesome  passion.    I  was  there, 

And  for  such  honor  I  gave  nothing  worse 

Than  some  advice  at  which  he  may  have  smiled. 

I  must  have  given  a  modicum  besides, 

Or  the  rough  interval  between  those  days 

And  these  would  never  have  made  for  me  my  friends, 

Or  enemies.    I  should  be  something  somewhere — 

I  say  not  what — but  I  should  not  be  here 

If  he  had  not  been  there.    Possibly,  too, 

You  might  not — or  that  Quaker  with  his  cane. 

BURR 

Possibly,  too,  I  should.     When  the  Almighty 
Kides  a  white  horse,  I  fancy  we  shall  know  it. 

HAMILTON 

It  was  a  man,  Burr,  that  was  in  my  mind; 
No  god,  or  ghost,  or  demon — only  a  man: 
A  man  whose  occupation  is  the  need 
Of  those  who  would  not  feel  it  if  it  bit  them; 
And  one  who  shapes  an  age  while  he  endures 
The  pin  pricks  of  inferiorities; 
A  cautious  man,  because  he  is  but  one; 
480 


ON  THE  WAY 

A  lonely  man,  because  he  is  a  thousand. 

No  marvel  you  are  slow  to  find  in  him 

The  genius  that  is  one  spark  or  is  nothing: 

His  genius  is  a  flame  that  he  must  hold 

So  far  above  the  common  heads  of  men 

That  they  may  view  him  only  through  the  mist 

Of  their  defect,  and  wonder  what  he  is. 

It  seems  to  me  the  mystery  that  is  in  him 

That  makes  him  only  more  to  me  a  man 

Than  any  other  I  have  ever  known. 

BURR 

I  grant  you  that  his  worship  is  a  man. 

I'm  not  so  much  at  home  with  mysteries, 

May  be,  as  you — so  leave  him  with  his  fire: 

God  knows  that  I  shall  never  put  it  out. 

He  has  not  made  a  cripple  of  himself 

In  his  pursuit  of  me,  though  I  have  heard 

His  condescension  honors  me  with  parts. 

Parts  make  a  whole,  if  we've  enough  of  them; 

And  once  I  figured  a  sufficiency 

To  be  at  least  an  atom  in  the  annals 

Of  your  republic.    But  I  must  have  erred. 

HAMILTON 

You  smile  as  if  your  spirit  lived  at  ease 
With  error.    I  should  not  have  named  it  so, 
Failing  assent  from  you;  nor,  if  I  did, 
Should  I  be  so  complacent  in  my  skill 
To  comb  the  tangled  language  of  the  people 
As  to  be  sure  of  anything  in  these  days. 
Put  that  much  in  account  with  modesty. 
481 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

BURR 

What  in  the  name  of  Ahab,  Hamilton, 

Have  you,  in  the  last  region  of  your  dreaming, 

To  do  with  "people"?    You  may  be  the  devil 

In  your  dead-reckoning  of  what  reefs  and  shoals 

Are  waiting  on  the  progress  of  our  ship 

Unless  you  steer  it,  but  you'll  find  it  irksome 

Alone  there  in  the  stern  ^nd  some  warm  day 

There'll  be  an  inland  music  in  the  rigging, 

And  afterwards  on  deck.    I'm  not  affined 

Or  favored  overmuch  at  Monticello, 

But  there's  a  mighty  swarming  of  new  bees 

About  the  premises,  and  all  have  wings. 

If  you  hear  something  buzzing  before  long, 

Be  thoughtful  how  you  strike,  remembering  also 

There  was  a  fellow  Naboth  had  a  vineyard, 

And  Ahab  cut  his  hair  off  and  went  softly. 

HAMILTON 
I  don't  remember  that  he  cut  his  hair  off. 

BURR 

Somehow  I  rather  fancy  that  he  did. 
If  so,  it's  in  the  Book;  and  if  not  so, 
He  did  the  rest,  and  did  it  handsomely. 

HAMILTON 

Commend  yourself  to  Ahab  and  his  ways 
If  they  inveigle  you  to  emulation; 
But  where,  if  I  may  ask  it,  are  you  tending 
With  your  invidious  wielding  of  the  Scriptures? 
You  call  to  mind  an  eminent  archangel 
Who  fell  to  make  him  famous.    Would  you  fall 
So  far  as  he,  to  be  so  far  remembered? 
482 


ON  THE  WAY 

BURR 

Before  I  fall  or  rise,  or  am  an  angel, 

I  shall  acquaint  myself  a  little  further 

With  our  new  land's  new  language,  which  is  not — 

Peace  to  your  dreams — an  idiom  to  your  liking. 

I'm  wondering  if  a  man  may  always  know 

How  old  a  man  may  be  at  thirty-seven; 

I  wonder  likewise  if  a  prettier  time 

Could  be  decreed  for  a  good  man  to  vanish 

Than  about  now  for  you,  before  you  fade, 

And  even  your  friends  are  seeing  that  you  have  had 

Your  cup  too  full  for  longer  mortal  triumph. 

Well,  you  have  had  enough,  and  had  it  young; 

And  the  old  wine  is  nearer  to  the  lees 

Than  you  are  to  the  work  that  you  are  doing. 

HAMILTON 

When  does  this  philological  excursion 
Into  new  lands  and  languages  begin? 

BURR 

Anon — that  is,  already.     Only  Fortune 

Gave  me  this  afternoon  the  benefaction 

Of  your  blue  back,  which  I  for  love  pursued, 

And  in  pursuing  may  have  saved  your  life — 

Also  the  world  a  pounding  piece  of  news : 

Hamilton  bites  the  dust  of  Washington, 

Or  rather  of  his  horse.     For  you  alone, 

Or  for  your  fame,  I'd  wish  it  might  have  been  so. 

HAMILTON 

Not  every  man  among  us  has  a  friend 
So  jealous  for  the  other's  fame.    How  long 
483 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Are  you  to  diagnose  the  doubtful  case 

Of  Demos — and  what  for?    Have  you  a  sword 

For  some  new  Damocles?    If  it's  for  me, 

I  have  lost  all  official  appetite, 

And  shall  have  faded,  after  January, 

Into  the  law.    I'm  going  to  New  York. 

BURR 

No  matter  where  you  are,  one  of  these  days 

I  shall  come  back  to  you  and  tell  you  something. 

This  Demos,  I  have  heard,  has  in  his  wrist 

A  pulse  that  no  two  doctors  have  as  yet 

Counted  and  found  the  same,  and  in  his  mouth 

A  tongue  that  has  the  like  alacrity 

For  saying  or  not  for  saying  what  most  it  is 

That  pullulates  in  his  ignoble  mind. 

One  of  these  days  I  shall  appear  again, 

To  tell  you  more  of  him  and  his  opinions; 

I  shall  not  be  so  long  out  of  your  sight, 

Or  take  myself  so  far,  that  I  may  not, 

Like  Alcibiades,  come  back  again. 

He  went  away  to  Phrygia,  and  fared  ill 

HAMILTON 

There's  an  example  in  Themistocles : 
He  went  away  to  Persia,  and  fared  well. 

BURB 

So  ?    Must  I  go  so  far  ?    And  if  so,  why  so  ? 
I  had  not  planned  it  so.    Is  this  the  road 
I  take?    If  so,  farewell. 

HAMILTON 

Quite  so.    Farewell. 
484 


JOHN  BROWN 


JOHN  BROWN 

THOUGH  for  your  sake  I  would  not  have  you  now 
So  near  to  me  tonight  as  now  you  are, 
God  knows  how  much  a  stranger  to  my  heart 
Was  any  cold  word  that  I  may  have  written; 
And  you,  poor  woman  that  I  made  my  wife, 
You  have  had  more  of  loneliness,  I  fear, 
Than  I — though  I  have  been  the  most  alone, 
Even  when  the  most  attended.     So  it  was 
God  set  the  mark  of  his  inscrutable 
Necessity  on  one  that  was  to  grope, 
And  serve,  and  suffer,  and  withal  be  glad 
For  what  was  his,  and  is,  and  is  to  be, 
When  his  old  bones,  that  are  a  burden  now, 
Are  saying  what  the  man  who  carried  them 
Had  not  the  power  to  say.    Bones  in  a  grave, 
Cover  them  as  they  will  with  choking  earth, 
May  shout  the  truth  to  men  who  put  them  there, 
More  than  all  orators.     And  so,  my  dear, 
Since  you  have  cheated  wisdom  for  the  sake 
Of  sorrow,  let  your  sorrow  be  for  you, 
This  last  of  nights  before  the  last  of  days, 
The  lying  ghost  of  what  there  is  of  me 
That  is  the  most  alive.    There  is  no  death 
For  me  in  what  they  do.     Their  death  it  is 
They  should  heed  most  when  the  sun  comes  again 
To  make  them  solemn.    There  are  some  I  know 
Whose  eyes  will  hardly  see  their  occupation, 
For  tears  in  them — and  all  for  one  old  man; 
For  some  of  them  will  pity  this  old  man, 
Who  took  upon  himself  the  work  of  God 
Because  he  pitied  millions.     That  will  be 
For  them,  I  fancy,  their  compassionate 
485 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Best  way  of  saying  what  is  best  in  them 
To  say;  for  they  can  say  no  more  than  that, 
And  they  can  do  no  more  than  what  the  dawn 
Of  one  more  day  shall  give  them  light  enough 
To  do.    But  there  are  many  days  to  be, 
And  there  are  many  men  to  give  their  blood, 
As  I  gave  mine  for  them.    May  they  come  soon ! 

May  they  come  soon,  I  say.    And  when  they  come, 
May  all  that  I  have  said  unheard  be  heard, 
Proving  at  last,  or  maybe  not — no  matter — 
What  sort  of  madness  was  the  part  of  me 
That  made  me  strike,  whether  I  found  the  mark 
Or  missed  it.    Meanwhile,  I've  a  strange  content, 
A  patience,  and  a  vast  indifference 
To  what  men  say  of  me  and  what  men  fear 
To  say.    There  was  a  work  to  be  begun, 
And  when  the  Voice,  that  I  have  heard  so  long, 
Announced  as  in  a  thousand  silences 
An  end  of  preparation,  I  began 
The  coming  work  of  death  which  is  to  be, 
That  life  may  be.    There  is  no  other  way 
Than  the  old  way  of  war  for  a  new  land 
That  will  not  know  itself  and  is  tonight 
A  stranger  to  itself,  and  to  the  world 
A  more  prodigious  upstart  among  states 
Than  I  was  among  men,  and  so  shall  be 
Till  they  are  told  and  told,  and  told  again; 
For  men  are  children,  waiting  to  be  told, 
And  most  of  them  are  children  all  their  lives. 
The  good  God  in  his  wisdom  had  them  so, 
That  now  and  then  a  madman  or  a  seer 
May  shake  them  out  of  their  complacency 
And  shame  them  into  deeds.    The  major  file 
See  only  what  their  fathers  may  have  seen, 
486 


JOHN  BROWN 

Or  may  have  said  they  saw  when  they  saw  nothing. 

I  do  not  say  it  matters  what  they  saw. 

Now  and  again  to  some  lone  soul  or  other 

God  speaks,  and  there  is  hanging  to  be  done, — 

As  once  there  was  a  burning  of  our  bodies 

Alive,  albeit  our  souls  were  sorry  fuel. 

But  now  the  fires  are  few,  and  we  are  poised 

Accordingly,  for  the  state's  benefit, 

A  few  still  minutes  between  heaven  and  earth. 

The  purpose  is,  when  they  have  seen  enough 

Of  what  it  is  that  they  are  not  to  see, 

To  pluck  me  as  an  unripe  fruit  of  treason, 

And  then  to  fling  me  back  to  the  same  earth 

Of  which  they  are,  as  I  suppose,  the  flower — 

Not  given  to  know  the  riper  fruit  that  waits 

For  a  more  comprehensive  harvesting. 

Yes,  may  they  come,  and  soon.    Again  I  say, 
May  they  come  soon ! — before  too  many  of  them 
Shall  be  the  bloody  cost  of  our  defection. 
When  hell  waits  on  the  dawn  of  a  new  state, 
Better  it  were  that  hell  should  not  wait  long, — 
Or  so  it  is  I  see  it  who  should  see 
As  far  or  farther  into  time  tonight 
Than  they  who  talk  and  tremble  for  me  now, 
Or  wish  me  to  those  everlasting  fires 
That  are  for  me  no  fear.     Too  many  fires 
Have  sought  me  out  and  seared  me  to  the  bone — 
Thereby,  for  all  I  know,  to  temper  me 
For  what  was  mine  to  do.    If  I  did  ill 
What  I  did  well,  let  men  say  I  was  mad; 
Or  let  my  name  for  ever  be  a  question 
That  will  not  sleep  in  history.    What  men  say 
I  was  will  cool  no  cannon,  dull  no  sword, 
Invalidate  no  truth.    Meanwhile,  I  was; 
487 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  the  long  train  is  lighted  that  shall  burn, 

Though  floods  of  wrath  may  drench  it,  and  hot  feet 

May  stamp  it  for  a  slight  time  into  smoke 

That  shall  blaze  up  again  with  growing  speed, 

Until  at  last  a  fiery  crash  will  come 

To  cleanse  and  shake  a  wounded  hemisphere, 

And  heal  it  of  a  long  malignity 

That  angry  time  discredits  and  disowns. 

Tonight  there  are  men  saying  many  things; 
And  some  who  see  life  in  the  last  of  me 
Will  answer  first  the  coming  call  to  death; 
For  death  is  what  is  coming,  and  then  life. 
I  do  not  say  again  for  the  dull  sake 
Of  speech  what  you  have  heard  me  say  before, 
But  rather  for  the  sake  of  all  I  am, 
And  all  God  made  of  me.    A  man  to  die 
As  I  do  must  have  done  some  other  work 
Than  man's  alone.    I  was  not  after  glory, 
But  there  was  glory  with  me,  like  a  friend, 
Throughout  those  crippling  years  when  friends  were  few, 
And  fearful  to  be  known  by  their  own  names 
When  mine  was  vilified  for  their  approval. 
Yet  friends  they  are,  and  they  did  what  was  given 
Their  will  to  do ;  they  could  have  done  ho  more. 
I  was  the  one  man  mad  enough,  it  seems, 
To  do  my  work;  and  now  my  work  is  over. 
And  you,  my  dear,  are  not  to  mourn  for  me, 
Or  for  your  sons,  more  than  a  soul  should  mourn 
In  Paradise,  done  with  evil  and  with  earth. 
There  is  not  much  of  earth  in  what  remains 
For  you;  and  what  there  may  be  left  of  it 
For  your  endurance  you  shall  have  at  last 
In  peace,  without  the  twinge  of  any  fear 
For  my  condition;  for  I  shall  be  done 
488 


JOHN  BROWN 

With  plans  and  actions  that  have  heretofore 

Made  your  days  long  and  your  nights  ominous 

With  darkness  and  the  many  distances 

That  were  between  us.     When  the  silence  comes, 

I  shall  in  faith  be  nearer  to  you  then 

Than  I  am  now  in  fact.    What  you  see  now 

Is  only  the  outside  of  an  old  man, 

Older  than  years  have  made  him.    Let  him  die, 

And  let  him  be  a  thing  for  little  grief. 

There  was  a  time  for  service  and  he  served; 

And  there  is  no  more  time  for  anything 

But  a  short  gratefulness  to  those  who  gave 

Their  scared  allegiance  to  an  enterprise 

That  has  the  name  of  treason — which  will  serve 

As  well  as  any  other  for  the  present. 

There  are  some  deeds  of  men  that  have  no  names, 

And  mine  may  like  as  not  be  one  of  them. 

I  am  not  looking  far  for  names  tonight. 

The  King  of  Glory  was  without  a  name 

Until  men  gave  Him  one;  yet  there  He  was, 

Before  we  found  Him  and  affronted  Him 

With  numerous  ingenuities  of  evil, 

Of  which  one,  with  His  aid,  is  to  be  swept 

And  washed  out  of  the  world  with  fire  and  blood. 

Once  I  believed  it  might  have  come  to  pass 
With  a  small  cost  of  blood ;  but  I  was  dreaming — 
Dreaming  that  I  believed.    The  Voice  I  heard 
When  I  left  you  behind  me  in  the  north, — 
To  wait  there  and  to  wonder  and  grow  old 
Of  loneliness, — told  only  what  was  best, 
And  with  a  saving  vagueness,  I  should  know 
Till  I  knew  more.    And  had  I  known  even  then — 
After  grim  years  of  search  and  suffering, 
So  many  of  them  to  end  as  they  began — 
489 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

After  my  sickening  doubts  and  estimations 

Of  plans  abandoned  and  of  new  plans  vain — 

After  a  weary  delving  everywhere 

For  men  with  every  virtue  but  the  Vision — 

Could  I  have  known,  I  say,  before  I  left  you 

That  summer  morning,  all  there  was  to  know — 

Even  unto  the  last  consuming  word 

That  would  have  blasted  every  mortal  answer 

As  lightning  would  annihilate  a  leaf, 

I  might  have  trembled  on  that  summer  morning; 

I  might  have  wavered ;  and  I  might  have  failed. 

And  there  are  many  among  men  today 

To  say  of  me  that  I  had  best  have  wavered. 

So  has  it  been,  so  shall  it  always  be, 

For  those  of  us  who  give  ourselves  to  die 

Before  we  are  so  parcelled  and  approved 

As  to  be  slaughtered  by  authority. 

We  do  not  make  so  much  of  what  they  say 

As  they  of  what  our  folly  says  of  us; 

They  give  us  hardly  time  enough  for  that, 

And  thereby  we  gain  much  by  losing  little. 

Few  are  alive  to-day  with  less  to  lose 

Than  I  who  tell  you  this,  or  more  to  gain ; 

And  whether  I  speak  as  one  to  be  destroyed 

For  no  good  end  outside  his  own  destruction, 

Time  shall  have  more  to  say  than  men  shall  hear 

Between  now  and  the  coming  of  that  harvest 

Which  is  to  come.    Before  it  comes,  I  go — 

By  the  short  road  that  mystery  makes  long 

For  man's  endurance  of  accomplishment. 

I  shall  have  more  to  say  when  I  am  dead. 


490 


THE  FALSE  GODS 


THE  FALSE  GODS 

"WE  are  false  and  evanescent,  and  aware  of  our  deceit, 
From  the  straw  that  is  our  vitals  to  the  clay  that  is  our  feet. 
You  may  serve  us  if  you  must,  and  you  shall  have  your  wage 

of  ashes, — 
Though  arrears  due  thereafter  may  be  hard  for  you  to  meet. 

"You  may  swear  that  we  are  solid,  you  may  say  that  we  are 

strong, 
But  we  know  that  we  are  neither  and  we  say  that  you  are 

wrong ; 

You  may  find  an  easy  worship  in  acclaiming  our  indulgence, 
But  your  large  admiration  of  us  now  is  not  for  long. 

"If  your  doom  is  to  adore  us  with  a  doubt  that's  never  still, 
And  you  pray  to  see  our  faces — pray  in  earnest,  and  you  will. 
You  may  gaze  at  us  and  live,  and  live  assured  of  our  confusion : 
For  the  False  Gods  are  mortal,  and  are  made  for  you  to  kill. 

"And  you  may  as  well  observe,  while  apprehensively  at  ease 
With  an  Art  that's  inorganic  and  is  anything  you  please, 
That  anon  your  newest  ruin  may  lie  crumbling  unregarded, 
Like  an  old  shrine  forgotten  in  a  forest  of  new  trees. 

"Howsoever  like  no  other  be  the  mode  you  may  employ, 

There's  an  order  in  the  ages  for  the  ages  to  enjoy; 

Though  the  temples  you  are  shaping  and  the  passions  you  are 

singing 
Are  a  long  way  from  Athens  and  a  longer  way  from  Troy. 

"When  we  promise  more  than  ever  of  what  never  shall  arrive, 
And  you  seem  a  little  more  than  ordinarily  alive, 
Make  a  note  that  you  are  sure  you  understand  our  obligations — 
For  there's  grief  always  auditing  where  two  and  two  are  five. 

491 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"There  was  this  for  us  to  say  and  there  was  this  for  you  to 

know, 

Though  it  humbles  and  it  hurts  us  when  we  have  to  tell  you  so. 
If  you  doubt  the  only  truth  in  all  our  perjured  composition, 
May  the  True  Gods  attend  you  and  forget  us  when  we  go." 


ARCHIBALD'S  EXAMPLE 

OLD  ARCHIBALD,  in  his  eternal  chair, 
Where  trespassers,  whatever  their  degree, 
Were  soon  frowned  out  again,  was  looking  off 
Across  the  clover  when  he  said  to  me: 

"My  green  hill  yonder,  where  the  sun  goes  down 
Without  a  scratch,  was  once  inhabited 
By  trees  that  injured  him — an  evil  trash 
That  made  a  cage,  and  held  him  while  he  bled. 

"Gone  fifty  years,  I  see  them  as  they  were 
Before  they  fell.     They  were  a  crooked  lot 
To  spoil  my  sunset,  and  I  saw  no  time 
In  fifty  years  for  crooked  things  to  rot. 

"Trees,  yes;  but  not  a  service  or  a  joy 
To  God  or  man,  for  they  were  thieves  of  light. 
So  down  they  came.    Nature  and  I  looked  on, 
And  we  were  glad  when  they  were  out  of  sight. 

"Trees  are  like  men,  sometimes ;  and  that  being  so, 
So  much  for  that."    He  twinkled  in  his  chair, 
And  looked  across  the  clover  to  the  place 
That  he  remembered  when  the  trees  were  there. 
492 


LONDON  BRIDGE 


LONDON  BRIDGE 

"Do  I  hear  them?    Yes,  I  hear  the  children  singing — and  what 

of  it? 

Have  you  come  with  eyes  afire  to  find  me  now  and  ask  me  that  ? 
If  I  were  not  their  father  and  if  you  were  not  their  mother, 
We  might  believe  they  made   a  noise.  .  .  .  What   are  you — 

driving  at!" 

"Well,  be  glad  that  you  can  hear  them,  and  be  glad  they  are  so 

near  us, — 

For  I  have  heard  the  stars  of  heaven,  and  they  were  nearer  still. 
All  within  an  hour  it  is  that  I  have  heard  them  calling, 
And  though  I  pray  for  them  to  cease,  I  know  they  never  will; 
For  their  music  on  my  heart,  though  you  may  freeze  it,  will 

fall  always, 

Like  summer  snow  that  never  melts  upon  a  mountain-top. 
Do  you  hear  them?    Do  you  hear  them  overhead — the  children 

— singing  ? 
Do  you  hear  the  children  singing?  .  .  .  God,  will  you  make 

them  stop!" 

"And  what  now  in  His  holy  name  have  you  to  do  with  moun 
tains  ? 

We're  back  to  town  again,  my  dear,  and  we've  a  dance  tonight. 

Frozen  hearts  and  falling  music?  Snow  and  stars,  and — what 
the  devil! 

Say  it  over  to  me  slowly,  and  be  sure  you  have  it  right." 

"God  knows  if  I  be  right  or  wrong  in  saying  what  I  tell  you, 
Or  if  I  know  the  meaning  any  more  of  what  I  say. 
All  I  know  is,  it  will  kill  me  if  I  try  to  keep  it  hidden — 
Well,  I  met  him.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  met  him,  and  I  talked  with  him — 
today." 

493 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"You  met  him?    Did  you  meet  the  ghost  of  someone  you  had 

poisoned, 

Long  ago,  before  I  knew  you  for  the  woman  that  you  are? 
Take   a   chair;    and   don't  begin   your    stories   always   in  the 

middle. 

Was  he  man,  or  was  he  demon  ?    Anyhow,  you've  gone  too  far 
To  go  back,  and  I'm  your  servant.     I'm  the  lord,  but  you're 

the  master. 
Now  go  on  with  what  you  know,  for  I'm  excited." 

"Do  you  mean — 

Do  you  mean  to  make  me  try  to  think  that  you  know  less  than 
I  do?" 

"I  know  that  you  foreshadow  the  beginning  of  a  scene. 
Pray  be  careful,  and  as  accurate  as  if  the  doors  of  heaven 
Were  to  swing  or  to  stay  bolted  from  now  on  for  evermore." 

"Do  you  conceive,  with  all  your  smooth   contempt  of  every 

feeling, 
Of  hiding  what  you  know   and  what  you  must  have  known 

before  ? 
Is  it  worth  a  woman's  torture  to  stand  here  and  have  you 

smiling, 

With  only  your  poor  fetish  of  possession  on  your  side? 
No  thing  but  one  is  wholly  sure,  and  that's  not  one  to  scare 

me; 

When  I  meet  it  I  may  say  to  God  at  last  that  I  have  tried. 
And  yet,  for  all  I  know,  or  all  I  dare  believe,  my  trials 
Henceforward  will  be  more  for  you  to  bear  than  are  your  own; 
And  you  must  give  me  keys  of  yours  to  rooms  I  have  not 

entered. 

Do  you  see  me  on  your  threshold  all  my  life,  and  there  alone? 
Will  you  tell  me  where  you  see  me  in  your  fancy — when  it 

leads  you 

Far  enough  beyond  the  moment  for  a  glance  at  the  abyss  ?" 

494 


LONDON  BRIDGE 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  intrinsic  and  amazing  sort  of  nonsense 
You  are  crowding  on  the  patience  of  the  man  who  gives  you — 

this? 

Look  around  you  and  be  sorry  you're  not  living  in  an  attic, 
With  a  civet  and  a  fish-net,  and  with  you  to  pay  the  rent. 
I  say  words  that  you  can  spell  without  the  use  of  all  your 

letters ; 
And  I  grant,   if  you  insist,  that  I've  a  guess   at  what  you 

meant." 

"Have  I  told  you,  then,  for  nothing,  that  I  met  him  ?    Are  you 

trying 
To  be  merry  while  you  try  to  make  me  hate  you?" 

"Think  again, 

My  dear,  before  you  tell  me,  in  a  language  unbecoming 
To  a  lady,  what  you  plan  to  tell  me  next.    If  I  complain, 
If  I  seem  an  atom  peevish  at  the  preference  you  mention — 
Or  imply,  to  be  precise — you  may  believe,  or  you  may  not, 
That  I'm  a  trifle  more  aware  of  what  he  wants  than  you  are. 
But  I  shouldn't  throw  that  at  you.    Make  believe  that  I  forgot. 
Make   believe   that   he's    a   genius,    if  you   like, — but   in   the 

meantime 
Don't  go  back  to  rocking-horses.    There,  there,  there,  now." 

"Make  believe! 

When  you  see  me  standing  helpless  on  a  plank  above  a  whirl 
pool, 

Do  I  drown,  or  do  I  hear  you  when  you  say  it  ?    Make  believe  ? 

How  much  more  am  I  to  say  or  do  for  you  before  I  tell  you 

That  I  met  him!  What's  to  follow  now  may  be  for  you  to 
choose. 

Do  you  hear  me?  Won't  you  listen?  It's  an  easy  thing  to 
listen.  .  .  ." 

"And  it's  easy  to  be  crazy  when  there's  everything  to  lose." 

495 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"If  at  last  you  have  a  notion  that  I  mean  what  I  am  saying, 

Do  I  seem  to  tell  you  nothing  when  I  tell  you  I  shall  try  ? 

If  you  save  me,  and  I  lose  him — I  don't  know — it  won't  much 

matter. 
I  dare  say  that  I've  lied  enough,  but  now  I  do  not  lie." 

"Do  you  fancy  me  the  one  man   who   has  waited   and   said 

nothing 

While  a  wife  has  dragged  an  old  infatuation  from  a  tomb  ? 
Give  the  thing  a  little  air  and  it  will  vanish  into  ashes. 
There  you  are — piff !  presto  I" 

"When  I  came  into  this  room, 

It  seemed  as  if  I  saw  the  place,  and  you  there  at  your  table, 
As  you  are  now  at  this  moment,  for  the  last  time  in  my  life; 
And  I  told  myself  before  I  came  to  find  you,  'I  shall  tell  him, 
If  I  can,  what  I  have  learned  of  him  since  I  became  his  wife.' 
And  if  you  say,  as  I've  no  doubt  you  will  before  I  finish, 
That  you  have  tried  unceasingly,  with  all  your  might  and  main, 
To  teach  me,  knowing  more  than  I  of  what  it  was  I  needed, 
Don't  think,  with  all  you  may  have  thought,  that  you  have  tried 

in  vain; 
For  you  have  taught  me  more  than  hides  in  all  the  shelves  of 

knowledge 

Of  how  little  you  found  that's  in  me  and  was  in  me  all  along. 
I  believed,  if  I  intruded  nothing  on  you  that  I  cared  for, 
I'd  be  half  as  much  as  horses, — and  it  seems  that  I  was  wrong; 
I   believed  there  was  enough   of  earth  in  me,   with   all  my 

nonsense 
Over  things  that  made  you  sleepy,   to  keep   something  still 

awake ; 
But  you  taught  me  soon  to  read  my  book,  and  God  knows  I 

have  read  it — 

Ages  longer  than  an  angel  would  have  read  it  for  your  sake. 
I  have  said  that  you  must  open  other  doors  than  I  have  entered, 

496 


LONDON  BRIDGE 

But  I  wondered  while  I  said  it  if  I  might  not  be  obscure. 
Is  there  anything  in  all  your  pedigrees  and  inventories 
With  a  value  more  elusive  than  a  dollar's?    Are  you  sure 
That  if  I  starve  another  year  for  you  I  shall  be  stronger 
To  endure  another  like  it — and  another — till  I'm  dead?" 

"Has  your  tame  cat  sold  a  picture? — or  more  likely  had  a 

windfall? 
Or  for  God's  sake,  what's  broke  loose?     Have  you  a  bee-hive 

in  your  head? 

A  little  more  of  this  from  you  will  not  be  easy  hearing 
Do  you  know  that?     Understand   it,   if  you   do;   for  if  you 

won't.  .  .  . 

What  the  devil  are  you  saying !    Make  believe  you  never  said  it, 
And  I'll  say  I  never  heard  it.  ...  Oh,  you.  ...  If  you.  .  .  ." 

"If  I  don't?" 

"There  are  men  who  say  there's  reason  hidden  somewhere  in  a 

woman, 
But  I   doubt  if  God  himself  remembers   where  the  key  was 

hung." 

"He  may  not ;  for  they  say  that  even  God  himself  is  growing. 
I  wonder  if  He  makes  believe  that  He  is  growing  young; 
I  wonder  if  He  makes  believe  that  women  who  are  giving 
All  they  have  in  holy  loathing  to  a  stranger  all  their  lives 
Are  the  wise  ones  who  build  houses  in  the  Bible.  .  .  ." 

"Stop— you  devil!" 

".  .  .  Or  that  souls  are  any  whiter  when  their  bodies  are  called 

wives. 

If  a  dollar's  worth  of  gold  will  hoop  the  walls  of  hell  together, 
Why  need  heaven  be  such  a  ruin  of  a  place  that  never  was? 

497 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  if  at  last  I  lied  my  starving  soul  away  to  nothing, 

Are  you  sure  you  might  not  miss  it?    Have  you  come  to  such 

a  pass 

That  you  would  have  me  longer  in  your  arms  if  you  discovered 
That  I  made  you  into  someone  else.  .  .  .  Oh!  .  .  .  Well,  there 

are  worse  ways. 
But  why  aim  it  at  my  feet — unless   you  fear  you   may   be 

sorry.  .  .  . 
There  are  many  days  ahead  of  you." 

"I  do  not  see  those  days." 

"I  can  see  them.     Granted  even  I  am  wrong,  there  are  the 

children. 

And  are  they  to  praise  their  father  for  his  insight  if  we  die? 
Do  you  hear  them?    Do  you  hear  them  overhead — the  children 

— singing  ? 
Do  you  hear  them  ?    Do  you  hear  the  children  ?" 

"Damn  the  children!" 

"Why? 

What  have  they  done?  .  .  .  Well,  then, — do  it.  ...  Do  it  BOW, 
and  have  it  over." 

"Oh,  you  devil!  ...  Oh,  you.  .  .  ." 

"No,  I'm  not  a  devil,  I'm  a  prophet — 

One  who  sees  the  end  already  of  so  much  that  one  end  more 
Would   have  now  the   small   importance   of   one  other   small 

illusion, 
Which  in  turn  would  have  a  welcome  where  the  rest  have  gone 

before. 

But  if  I  were  you,  my  fancy  would  look  on  a  little  farther 
For  the  glimpse  of  a  release  that  may  be  somewhere  still  in 

sight. 

498 


TASKER  NORCROSS 

Furthermore,  you  must  remember  those  two  hundred  invita 
tions 

For  the  dancing  after  dinner.    We  shall  have  to  shine  tonight. 

We  shall  dance,  and  be  as  happy  as  a  pair  of  merry  spectres, 

On  the  grave  of  all  the  lies  that  we  shall  never  have  to  tell; 

We  shall  dance  among  the  ruins  of  the  tomb  of  our  endurance, 

And  I  have  not  a  doubt  that  we  shall  do  it  very  well. 

There! — I'm  glad  you've  put  it  back;  for  I  don't  like  it.  Shut 
the  drawer  now. 

No — no — don't  cancel  anything.    I'll  dance  until  I  drop. 

I  can't  walk  yet,  but  I'm  going  to.  ...  Go  away  somewhere, 
and  leave  me.  .  .  . 

Oh,  you  children !  Oh,  you  children !  .  .  .  God,  will  they  never 
stop !" 


TASKER  NORCROSS 

"WHETHER  all  towns  and  all  who  live  in  them — 
So  long  as  they  be  somewhere  in  this  world 
That  we  in  our  complacency  call  ours — 
Are  more  or  less  the  same,  I  leave  to  you. 
I  should  say  less.     Whether  or  not,  meanwhile, 
We've  all  two  legs — and  as  for  that,  we  haven't — 
There  were  three  kinds  of  men  where  I  was  born : 
The  good,  the  not  so  good,  and  Tasker  Norcross. 
Now  there  are  two  kinds." 

"Meaning,  as  I  divine, 
Your  friend  is  dead,"  I  ventured. 

Ferguson, 

Who  talked  himself  at  last  out  of  the  world 
He  censured,  and  is  therefore  silent  now, 
Agreed  indifferently:   "My  friends  are  dead — 
Or  most  of  them." 

499 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Kemember  one  that  isn't," 
I  said,  protesting,    ''Honor  him  for  his  ears ; 
Treasure  him  also  for  his  understanding." 
Ferguson  sighed,  and  then  talked  on  again: 
"You  have  an  overgrown  alacrity 
For  saying  nothing  much  and  hearing  less; 
And  I've  a  thankless  wonder,  at  the  start, 
How  much  it  is  to  you  that  I  shall  tell 
What  I  have  now  to  say  of  Tasker  Norcross, 
And  how  much  to  the  air  that  is  around  you. 
But  given  a  patience  that  is  not  averse 
To  the  slow  tragedies  of  haunted  men — 
Horrors,  in  fact,  if  you've  a  skilful  eye 
To  know  them  at  their  firesides,  or  out  walking, — " 

"Horrors,"  I  said,  "are  my  necessity; 

And  I  would  have  them,  for  their  best  effect, 

Always  out  walking." 

Ferguson  frowned  at  me: 
"The  wisest  of  us  are  not  those  who  laugh 
Before  they  know.     Most  of  us  never  know — 
Or  the  long  toil  of  our  mortality 
Would  not  be  done.     Most  of  us  never  know — 
And  there  you  have  a  reason  to  believe 
In  God,  if  you  may  have  no  other.     Norcross, 
Or  so  I  gather  of  his  infirmity, 

Was  given  to  know  more  than  he  should  have  known, 
And  only  God  knows  why.     See  for  yourself 
An  old  house  full  of  ghosts  of  ancestors, 
Who  did  their  best,  or  worst,  and  having  done  it, 
Died  honorably;  and  each  with  a  distinction 
That  hardly  would  have  been  for  him  that  had  it, 
Had  honor  failed  him  wholly  as  a  friend. 
Honor  that  is  a  friend  begets  a  friend. 

500 


TASKER  NORCROSS 

Whether  or  not  we  love  him,  still  we  have  him; 
And  we  must  live  somehow  by  what  we  have, 
Or  then  we  die.     If  you  say  chemistry, 
Then  you  must  have  your  molecules  in  motion, 
And  in  their  right  abundance.     Failing  either, 
You  have  not  long  to  dance.     Failing  a  friend, 
A  genius,  or  a  madness,  or  a  faith 
Larger  than  desperation,  you  are  here 
For  as  much  longer  than  you  like  as  may  be. 
Imagining  now,  by  way  of  an  example, 
Myself  a  more  or  less  remembered  phantom — 
Again,  I  should  say  less — how  many  times 
A  day  should  I  come  back  to  you?    No  answer. 
Forgive  me  when  I  seem  a  little  careless, 
But  we  must  have  examples,  or  be  lucid 
Without  them;  and  I  question  your  adherence 
To  such  an  undramatic  narrative 
As  this  of  mine,  without  the  personal  hook." 

"A  time  is  given  in  Ecclesiastes 
For  divers  works,"  I  told  him.     "Is  there  one 
For  saying  nothing  in  return  for  nothing? 
If  not,  there  should  be."     I  could  feel  his  eyes, 
And  they  were  like  two  cold  inquiring  points 
Of  a  sharp  metal.    When  I  looked  again, 
To  see  them  shine,  the  cold  that  I  had  felt 
Was  gone  to  make  way  for  a  smouldering 
Of  lonely  fire  that  I,  as  I  knew  then, 
Could  never  quench  with  kindness  or  with  lies. 
I  should  have  done  whatever  there  was  to  do 
For  Ferguson,  yet  I  could  not  have  mourned 
In  honesty  for  once  around  the  clock 
The  loss  of  him,  for  my  sake  or  for  his, 
Try  as  I  might;  nor  would  his  ghost  approve, 
Had  I  the  power  and  the  unthinking  will 
501 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

To  make  him  tread  again  without  an  aim 
The  road  that  was  behind  him — and  without 
The  faith,  or  friend,  or  genius,  or  the  madness 
That  he  contended  was  imperative. 

After  a  silence  that  had  been  too  long, 
"It  may  be  quite  as  well  we  don't,"  he  said; 
"As  well,  I  mean,  that  we  don't  always  say  it. 
You  know  best  what  I  mean,  and  I  suppose 
You  might  have  said  it  better.    What  was  that? 
Incorrigible?     Am  I  incorrigible? 
Well,  it's  a  word;  and  a  word  has  its  use, 
Or,  like  a  man,  it  will  soon  have  a  grave. 
It's  a  good  word  enough.    Incorrigible, 
May  be,  for  all  I  know,  the  word  for  Norcross. 
See  for  yourself  that  house  of  his  again 
That  he  called  home :    An  old  house,  painted  white, 
Square  as  a  box,  and  chillier  than  a  tomb 
To  look  at  or  to  live  in.    There  were  trees — 
Too  many  of  them,  if  such  a  thing  may  be — 
Before  it  and  around  it.     Down  in  front 
There  was  a  road,  a  railroad,  and  a  river; 
Then  there  were  hills  behind  it,  and  more  trees. 
The  thing  would  fairly  stare  at  you  through  trees, 
Like  a  pale  inmate  out  of  a  barred  window 
With  a  green  shade  half  down;  and  I  dare  say 
People  who  passed  have  said :    'There's  where  he  lives. 
We  know  him,  but  we  do  not  sjeem  to  know 
That  we  remember  any  good  of  him, 
Or  any  evil  that  is  interesting. 
There  you  have  all  we  know  and  all  we  care.' 
They  might  have  said  it  in  all  sorts  of  ways; 
And  then,  if  they  perceived  a  cat,  they  might 
Or  might  not  have  remembered  what  they  said. 
The  cat  might  have  a  personality — 
502 


TASKER  NORCROSS 

And  maybe  the  same  one  the  Lord  left  out 

Of  Tasker  Norcross,  who,  for  lack  of  it, 

Saw  the  same  sun  go  down  year  after  year; 

All  which  at  last  was  my  discovery. 

And  only  mine,  so  far  as  evidence 

Enlightens  one  more  darkness.     You  have  known 

All  round  you,  all  your  days,  men  who  are  nothing — 

Nothing,  I  mean,  so  far  as  time  tells  yet 

Of  any  other  need  it  has  of  them 

Than  to  make  sextons  hardy — but  no  less 

Are  to  themselves  incalculably  something, 

And  therefore  to  be  cherished.     God,  you  see, 

Being  sorry  for  them  in  their  fashioning, 

Indemnified  them  with  a  quaint  esteem 

Of  self,  and  with  illusions  long  as  life. 

You  know  them  well,  and  you  have  smiled  at  them; 

And  they,  in  their  serenity,  may  have  had 

Their  time  to  smile  at  you.    Blessed  are  they 

That  see  themselves  for  what  they  never  were 

Or  were  to  be,  and  are,  for  their  defect, 

At  ease  with  mirrors  and  the  dim  remarks 

That  pass  their  tranquil  ears." 

"Come,  come,"  said  I; 

"There  may  be  names  in  your  compendium 
That  we  are  not  yet  all  on  fire  for  shouting. 
Skin  most  of  us  of  our  mediocrity, 
We  should  have  nothing  then  that  we  could  scratch. 
The  picture  smarts.     Cover  it,  if  you  please, 
And  do  so  rather  gently.    Now  for  Norcross." 

Ferguson  closed  his  eyes  in  resignation, 
While  a  dead  sigh  came  out  of  him.    "Good  God!" 
He  said,  and  said  it  only  half  aloud, 
As  if  he  knew  no  longer  now,  nor  cared, 
503 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

If  one  were  there  to  listen :  "Have  I  said  nothing — 

Nothing  at  all — of  Norcross?    Do  you  mean 

To  patronize  him  till  his  name  becomes 

A  toy  made  out  of  letters?    If  a  name 

Is  all  you  need,  arrange  an  honest  column 

Of  all  the  people  you  have  ever  known 

That  you  have  never  liked.    You'll  have  enough; 

And  you'll  have  mine,  moreover.    No,  not  yet. 

If  I  assume  too  many  privileges, 

I  pay,  and  I  alone,  for  their  assumption; 

By  which,  if  I  assume  a  darker  knowledge 

Of  Norcross  than  another,  let  the  weight 

Of  my  injustice  aggravate  the  load 

That  is  not  on  your  shoulders.    When  I  came 

To  know  this  fellow  Norcross  in  his  house, 

I  found  him  as  I  found  him  in  the  street — 

No  more,  no  less;  indifferent,  but  no  better. 

'Worse'  were  not  quite  the  word:  he  was  not  bad; 

He  was  not  .  .  .  well,  he  was  not  anything. 

Has  your  invention  ever  entertained 

The  picture  of  a  dusty  worm  so  dry 

That  even  the  early  bird  would  shake  his  head 

And  fly  on  farther  for  another  breakfast?" 

"But  why  forget  the  fortune  of  the  worm," 
I  said,  "if  in  the  dryness  you  deplore 
Salvation  centred  and  endured?    Your  Norcross 
May  have  been  one  for  many  to  have  envied." 

"Salvation?    Fortune?    Would  the  worm  say  that? 
He  might;  and  therefore  I  dismiss  the  worm 
With  all  dry  things  but  one.    Figures  away, 
Do  you  begin  to  see  this  man  a  little  ? 
Do  you  begin  to  see  him  in  the  air, 
With  all  the  vacant  horrors  of  his  outline 
504 


TASKER  NORCROSS 

For  you  to  fill  wrth  more  than  it  will  hold? 
If  so,  you  needn't  crown  yourself  at  once 
With  epic  laurel  if  you  seem  to  fill  it. 
Horrors,  I  say,  for  in  the  fires  and  forks 
Of  a  new  hell — if  one  were  not  enough — 
I  doubt  if  a  new  horror  would  have  held  him 
With  a  malignant  ingenuity 
More  to  be  feared  than  his  before  he  died. 
You  smile,  as  if  in  doubt.    Well,  smile  again. 
Now  come  into  his  house,  along  with  me: 
The  four  square  sombre  things  that  you  see  first 
Around  you  are  four  walls  that  go  as  high 
As  to  the  ceiling.     Norcross  knew  them  well, 
And  he  knew  others  like  them.    Fasten  to  that 
With  all  the  claws  of  your  intelligence; 
And  hold  the  man  before  you  in  his  house 
As  if  he  were  a  white  rat  in  a  box, 
And  one  that  knew  himself  to  be  no  other. 
I  tell  you  twice  that  he  knew  all  about  it, 
That  you  may  not  forget  the  worst  of  all 
Our  tragedies  begin  with  what  we  know. 
Could  Norcross  only  not  have  known,  I  wonder 
How  many  would  have  blessed  and  envied  him  1 
Could  he  have  had  the  usual  eye  for  spots 
On  others,  and  for  none  upon  himself, 
I  smile  to  ponder  on  the  carriages 
That  might  as  well  as  not  have  clogged  the  town 
In  honor  of  his  end.     For  there  was  gold, 
You  see,  though  all  he  needed  was  a  little, 
And  what  he  gave  said  nothing  of  who  gave  it. 
He  would  have  given  it  all  if  in  return 
There  might  have  been  a  more  sufficient  face 
To  greet  him  when  he  shaved.    Though  you  insist 
It  is  the  dower,  and  always,  of  our  degree 
Not  to  be  cursed  with  such  invidious  insight, 
505 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Remember  that  you  stand,  you  and  your  fancy, 
Now  in  his  house;  and  since  we  are  together, 
See  for  yourself  and  tell  me  what  you  see. 
Tell  me  the  best  you  see.    Make  a  slight  noise 
Of  recognition  when  you  find  a  book 
That  you  would  not  as  lief  read  upside  down 
As  otherwise,  for  example.    If  there  you  fail, 
Observe  the  walls  and  lead  me  to  the  place, 
Where  you  are  led.    If  there  you  meet  a  picture 
That  holds  you  near  it  for  a  longer  time 
Than  you  are  sorry,  you  may  call  it  yours, 
And  hang  it  in  the  dark  of  your  remembrance, 
Where  Norcross  never  sees.    How  can  he  see 
That  has  no  eyes  to  see?    And  as  for  music, 
He  paid  with  empty  wonder  for  the  pangs 
Of  his  infrequent  forced  endurance  of  it; 
And  having  had  no  pleasure,  paid  no  more 
For  needless  immolation,  or  for  the  sight 
Of  those  who  heard  what  he  was  never  to  hear. 
To  see  them  listening  was  itself  enough 
To  make  him  suffer;  and  to  watch  worn  eyes, 
On  other  days,  of  strangers  who  forgot 
Their  sorrows  and  their  failures  and  themselves 
Before  a  few  mysterious  odds  and  ends 
Of  marble  carted  from  the  Parthenon — 
And  all  for  seeing  what  he  was  never  to  see, 
Because  it  was  alive  and  he  was  dead — 
Here  was  a  wonder  that  was  more  profound 
Than  any  that  was  in  fiddles  and  brass  horns. 


"He  knew,  and  in  his  knowledge  there  was  death. 
He  knew  there  was  a  region  all  around  him 
That  lay  outside  man's  havoc  and  affairs, 
And  yet  was  not  all  hostile  to  their  tumult, 
506 


TASKER  NORCROSS 

Where  poets  would  have  served  and  honored  him, 
And  saved  him,  had  there  been  anything  to  save. 
But  there  was  nothing,  and  his  tethered  range 
Was  only  a  small  desert.    Kings  of  song 
Are  not  for  thrones  in  deserts.    Towers  of  sound 
And  flowers  of  sense  are  but  a  waste  of  heaven 
Where  there  is  none  to  know  them  from  the  rocks 
And  sand-grass  of  his  own  monotony 
That  makes  earth  less  than  earth.    He  could  see  that, 
And  he  could  see  no  more.    The  captured  light 
That  may  have  been  or  not,  for  all  he  cared, 
The  song  that  is  in  sculpture  was  not  his, 
But  only,  to  his  God-forgotten  eyes, 
One  more  immortal  nonsense  in  a  world 
Where  all  was  mortal,  or  had  best  be  so, 
And  so  be  done  with.    'Art,'  he  would  have  said, 
'Is  not  life,  and  must  therefore  be  a  lie;' 
And  with  a  few  profundities  like  that 
He  would  have  controverted  and  dismissed 
The  benefit  of  the  Greeks.    He  had  heard  of  them, 
As  he  had  heard  of  his  aspiring  soul — 
Never  to  the  perceptible  advantage, 
In  his  esteem,  of  either.    'Faith,'  he  said, 
Or  would  have  said  if  he  had  thought  of  it, 
'Lives  in  the  same  house  with  Philosophy, 
Where  the  two  feed  on  scraps  and  are  forlorn 
As  orphans  after  war.    He  could  see  stars, 
On  a  clear  night,  but  he  had  not  an  eye 
To  see  beyond  them.    He  could  hear  spoken  words, 
But  had  no  ear  for  silence  when  alone. 
He  could  eat  food  of  which  he  knew  the  savor, 
But  had  no  palate  for  the  Bread  of  Life, 
That  human  desperation,  to  his  thinking, 
Made  famous  long  ago,  having  no  other. 
Now  do  you  see?    Do  you  begin  to  see?" 
507 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

I  told  him  that  I  did  begin  to  see; 
And  I  was  nearer  than  I  should  have  been 
To  laughing  at  his  malign  inclusiveness, 
When  I  considered  that,  with  all  our  speed, 
We  are  not  laughing  yet  at  funerals. 
I  see  him  now  as  I  could  see  him  then, 
And  I  see  now  that  it  was  good  for  me, 
As  it  was  good  for  him,  that  I  was  quiet; 
For  Time's  eye  was  on  Ferguson,  and  the  shaft 
Of  its  inquiring  hesitancy  had  touched  him, 
Or  so  I  chose  to  fancy  more  than  once 
Before  he'  told  of  Norcross.    When  the  word 
Qf  his  release  (he  would  have  called  it  so) 
Made  half  an  inch  of  news,  there  were  no  tears 
That  are  recorded.     Women  there  may  have  been 
To  wish  him  back,  though  I  should  say,  not  knowing, 
The  few  there  were  to  mourn  were  not  for  love, 
And  were  not  lovely.    Nothing  of  them,  at  least, 
Was  in  the  meagre  legend  that  I  gathered 
Years  after,  when  a  chance  of  travel  took  me 
So  near  the  region  of  his  nativity 
That  a  few  miles  of  leisure  brought  me  there; 
For  there  I  found  a  friendly  citizen 
Who  led  me  to  his  house  among  the  trees 
That  were  above  a  railroad  and  a  river. 
Square  as  a  box  and  chillier  than  a  tomb 
It  was  indeed,  to  look  at  or  to  live  in — 
All  which  had  I  been  told.    "Ferguson  died," 
The  stranger  said,  "and  then  there  was  an  auction. 
I  live  here,  but  I've  never  yet  been  warm. 
Eemember  him  ?    Yes,  I  remember  him. 
I  knew  him — as  a  man  may  know  a  tree — 
For  twenty  years.    He  may  have  held  himself 
A  little  high  when  he  was  here,  but  now  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  remember  Ferguson.    Oh,  yes." 
508 


SOUVENIR 

Others,  I  found,  remembered  Ferguson, 

But  none  of  them  had  heard  of  Tasker  Norcross. 


A  SONG  AT  SHANNON'S 

Two  men  came  out  of  Shannon's,  having  known 

The  faces  of  each  other  for  as  long 

As  they  had  listened  there  to  an  old  song, 

Sung  thinly  in  a  wastrel  monotone 

By  some  unhappy  night-bird,  who  had  flown 

Too  many  times  and  with  a  wing  too  strong 

To  save  himself,  and  so  done  heavy  wrong 

To  more  frail  elements  than  his  alone. 

Slowly  away  they  went,  leaving  behind 

More  light  than  was  before  them.     Neither  met 

The  other's  eyes  again  or  said  a  word. 

Each  to  his  loneliness  or  to  his  kind, 

Went  his  own  way,  and  with  his  own  regret, 

Not  knowing  what  the  other  may  have  heard. 


SOUVENIR 

A  VANISHED  house  that  for  an  hour  I  knew 
By  some  forgotten  chance  when  I  was  young 
Had  once  a  glimmering  window  overhung 
With  honeysuckle  wet  with  evening  dew. 
Along  the  path  tall  dusky  dahlias  grew, 
And  shadowy  hydrangeas  reached  and  swung 
Ferociously;  and  over  me,  among 
The  moths  and  mysteries,  a  blurred  bat  flew. 
509 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Somewhere  within  there  were  dim  presences 
Of  days  that  hovered  and  of  years  gone  by. 
I  waited,  and  between  their  silences 
There  was  an  evanescent  faded  noise; 
And  though  a  child,  I  knew  it  was  the  voice 
Of  one  whose  occupation  was  to  die. 


WE  told  of  him  as  one  who  should  have  soared 
And  seen  for  us  the  devastating  light 
Whereof  there  is  not  either  day  or  night, 
And  shared  with  us  the  glamour  of  the  Word 
That  fell  once  upon  Amos  to  record 
For  men  at  ease  in  Zion,  when  the  sight 
Of  ills  obscured  aggrieved  him  and  the  might 
Of  Hamath  was  a  warning  of  the  Lord. 

Assured  somehow  that  he  would  make  us  wise, 
Our  pleasure  was  to  wait;  and  our  surprise 
Was  hard  when  we  confessed  the  dry  return 
Of  his  regret.    For  we  were  still  to  learn 
That  earth  has  not  a  school  where  we  may  go 
For  wisdom,  or  for  more  than  we  may  know. 


FIRELIGHT 

TEN  years  together  without  yet  a  cloud, 
They  seek  each  other's  eyes  at  intervals 
Of  gratefulness  to  firelight  and  four  walls 
For  love's  obliteration  of  the  crowd. 
Serenely  and  perennially  endowed 
And  bowered  as  few  may  be,  their  joy  recalls 
510 


INFERENTIAL 

No  snake,  no  sword;  and  over  them  there  falls 
The  blessing  of  what  neither  says  aloud. 

Wiser  for  silence,  they  were  not  so  glad 
Were  she  to  read  the  graven  tale  of  lines 
On  the  wan  face  of  one  somewhere  alone; 
Nor  were  they  more  content  could  he  have  had 
Her  thoughts  a  moment  since  of  one  who  shines 
Apart,  and  would  be  hers  if  he  had  known. 


THE  NEW  TENANTS 

THE  day  was  here  when  it  was  his  to  know 
How  fared  the  barriers  he  had  built  between 
His  triumph  and  his  enemies  unseen, 
For  them  to  undermine  and  overthrow; 
And  it  was  his  no  longer  to  forego 
The  sight  of  them,  insidious  and  serene, 
Where  they  were  delving  always  and  had  been 
Left  always  to  be  vicious  and  to  grow. 

And  there  were  the  new  tenants  who  had  come, 
By  doors  that  were  left  open  unawares, 
Into  his  house,  and  were  so  much  at  home 
There  now  that  he  would  hardly  have  to  guess, 
By  the  slow  guile  of  their  vindictiveness, 
What  ultimate  insolence  would  soon  be  theirs. 


INFERENTIAL 

ALTHOUGH  I  saw  before  me  there  the  face 
Of  one  whom  I  had  honored  among  men 
The  least,  and  on  regarding  him  again 
511 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Would  not  have  had  him  in  another  place, 
He  fitted  with  an  unfamiliar  grace 
The  coffin  where  I  could  not  see  him  then 
As  I  had  seen  him  and  appraised  him  when 
I  deemed  him  unessential  to  the  race. 

For  there  was  more  of  him  than  what  I  saw. 

And  there  was  on  me  more  than  the  old  awe 

That  is  the  common  genius  of  the  dead. 

I  might  as  well  have  heard  him :  "Never  mind ; 

If  some  of  us  were  not  so  far  behind, 

The  rest  of  us  were  not  so  far  ahead." 


THE  RAT 

As  often  as  he  let  himself  be  seen 

We  pitied  him,  or  scorned  him,  or  deplored 

The  inscrutable  profusion  of  the  Lord 

Who  shaped  as  one  of  us  a  thing  so  mean — 

Who  made  him  human  when  he  might  have  been 

A  rat,  and  so  been  wholly  in  accord 

With  any  other  creature  we  abhorred 

As  always  useless  and  not  always  clean. 

Now  he  is  hiding  all  alone  somewhere, 
And  in  a  final  hole  not  ready  then; 
For  now  he  is  among  those  over  there 
Who  are  not  coming  back  to  us  again. 
And  we  who  do  the  fiction  of  our  share 
Say  less  of  rats  and  rather  more  of  men. 


512 


RAHEL  TO  VARNHAGEN 


RAHEL  TO  VARNHAGEN 

NOTE. — Rahel  Robert  and  Varnhagen  von  Ense  were  married, 
after  many  protestations  on  her  part,  in  1814.  The  marriage — so 
far  as  he  was  concerned  at  any  rate — appears  to  have  been  satis 
factory. 

Now  you  have  read  them  all ;  or  if  not  all, 
As  many  as  in  all  conscience  I  should  fancy 
To  be  enough.     There  are  no  more  of  them — 
Or  none  to  burn  your  sleep,  or  to  bring  dreams 
Of  devils.     If  these  are  not  sufficient,  surely 
You  are  a  strange  young  man.     I  might  live  on 
Alone,  and  for  another  forty  years, 
Or  not  quite  forty, — are  you  happier  now? — 
Always  to  ask  if  there  prevailed  elsewhere 
Another  like  yourself  that  would  have  held 
These  aged  hands  as  long  as  you  have  held  them, 
Not  once  observing,  for  all  I  can  see, 
How  they  are  like  your  mother's.    Well,  you  have  read 
His  letters  now,  and  you  have  heard  me  say 
That  in  them  are  the  cinders  of  a  passion 
That  was  my  life;  and  you  have  not  yet  broken 
Your  way  out  of  my  house,  out  of  my  sight, — 
Into  the  street.     You  are  a  strange  young  man. 
I  know  as  much  as  that  of  you,  for  certain; 
And  I'm  already  praying,  for  your  sake, 
That  you  be  not  too  strange.     Too  much  of  that 
May  lead  you  bye  and  bye  through  gloomy  lanes 
To  a  sad  wilderness,  where  one  may  grope 
Alone,  and  always,  or  until  he  feels 
Ferocious  and  invisible  animals 
That  wait  for  men  and  eat  them  in  the  dark. 
Why  do  you  sit  there  on  the  floor  so  long, 
Smiling  at  me  while  I  try  to  be  solemn? 
513 


Do  you  not  hear  it  said  for  your  salvation, 

When  I  say  truth  ?    Are  you,  at  four  and  twenty, 

So  little  deceived  in  us  that  you  interpret 

The  humor  of  a  woman  to  be  noticed 

As  her  choice  between  you  and  Acheron? 

Are  you  so  unscathed  yet  as  to  infer 

That  if  a  woman  worries  when  a  man, 

Or  a  man-child,  has  wet  shoes  on  his  feet 

She  may  as  well  commemorate  with  ashes 

The  last  eclipse  of  her  tranquillity? 

If  you  look  up  at  me  and  blink  again, 

I  shall  not  have  to  make  you  tell  me  lies 

To  know  the  letters  you  have  not  been  reading 

I  see  now  that  I  may  have  had  for  nothing 

A  most  unpleasant  shivering  in  my  conscience 

When  I  laid  open  for  your  contemplation 

The  wealth  of  my  worn  casket.     If  I  did, 

The  fault  was  not  yours  wholly.     Search  again 

This  wreckage  we  may  call  for  sport  a  face, 

And  you  may  chance  upon  the  price  of  havoc 

That  I  have  paid  for  a  few  sorry  stones 

That  shine  and  have  no  light — yet  once  were  stars, 

And  sparkled  on  a  crown.    Little  and  weak 

They  seem ;  and  they  are  cold,  I  fear,  for  you. 

But  they  that  once  were  fire  for  me  may  not 

Be  cold  again  for  me  until  I  die; 

And  only  God  knows  if  they  may  be  then. 

There  is  a  love  that  ceases  to  be  love 

In  being  ourselves.    How,  then,  are  we  to  lose  it? 

You  that  are  sure  that  you  know  everything 

There  is  to  know  of  love,  answer  me  that. 

Well?  .  .  .  You  are  not  even  interested. 

Once  on  a  far  off  time  when  I  was  young, 
I  felt  with  your  assurance,  and  all  through  me, 
514 


RAHEL  TO  VARNHAGEN 

That  I  had  undergone  the  last  and  worst 

Of  love's  inventions.    There  was  a  boy  who  brought 

The  sun  with  him  and  woke  me  up  with  it, 

And  that  was  every  morning;  every  night 

I  tried  to  dream  of  him,  but  never  could, 

More  than  I  might  have  seen  in  Adam's  eyes 

Their  fond  uncertainty  when  Eve  began 

The  play  that  all  her  tireless  progeny 

Are  not  yet  weary  of.    One  scene  of  it 

Was  brief,  but  was  eternal  while  it  lasted; 

And  that  was  while  I  was  the  happiest 

Of  an  imaginary  six  or  seven, 

Somewhere  in  history  but  not  on  earth, 

For  whom  the  sky  had  shaken  and  let  stars 

Rain  down  like  diamonds.     Then  there  were  clouds, 

And  a  sad  end  of  diamonds;  whereupon 

Despair  came,  like  a  blast  that  would  have  brought 

Tears  to  the  eyes  of  all  the  bears  in  Finland, 

And  love  was  done.     That  was  how  much  I  knew. 

Poor  little  wretch !     I  wonder  where  he  is 

This  afternoon.    Out  of  this  rain,  I  hope. 

At  last,  when  I  had  seen  so  many  days 
Dressed  all  alike,  and  in  their  marching  order, 
Go  by  me  that  I  would  not  always  count  them, 
One  stopped — shattering  the  whole  file  of  Time, 
Or  so  it  seemed;  and  when  I  looked  again, 
There  was  a  man.    He  struck  once  with  his  eyes, 
And  then  there  was  a  woman.    I,  who  had  come 
To  wisdom,  or  to  vision,  or  what  you  like, 
By  the  old  hidden  road  that  has  no  name, — 
I,  who  was  used  to  seeing  without  flying 
So  much  that  others  fly  from  without  seeing, 
Still  looked,  and  was  afraid,  and  looked  again. 
And  after  that,  when  I  had  read  the  story 
515 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Told  in  his  eyes,  and  felt  within  my  heart 
The  bleeding  wound  of  their  necessity, 
I  knew  the  fear  was  his.    If  I  had  failed  him 
And  flown  away  from  him,  I  should  have  lost 
Ingloriously  my  wings  in  scrambling  back, 
And  found  them  arms  again.    If  he  had  struck  me 
Not  only  with  his  eyes  but  with  his  hands, 
I  might  have  pitied  him  and  hated  love, 
And  then  gone  mad.    I,  who  have  been  so  strong — 
Why  don't  you  laugh? — might  even  have  done  all  that. 
I,  who  have  learned  so  much,  and  said  so  much, 
And  had  the  commendations  of  the  great 
For  one  who  rules  herself — why  don't  you  cry? — 
And  own  a  certain  small  authority 
Among  the  blind,  who  see  no  more  than  ever, 
But  like  my  voice, — I  would  have  tossed  it  all 
To  Tophet  for  one  man;  and  he  was  jealous. 
I  would  have  wound  a  snake  around  my  neck 
And  then  have  let  it  bite  me  till  I  died, 
If  my  so  doing  would  have  made  me  sure 
That  one  man  might  have  lived;  and  he  was  jealous. 
I  would  have  driven  these  hands  into  a  cage 
That  held  a  thousand  scorpions,  and  crushed  them, 
If  only  by  so  poisonous  a  trial 

I  could  have  crushed  his  doubt.    I  would  have  wrung 
My  living  blood  with  mediaeval  engines 
Out  of  my  screaming  flesh,  if  only  that 
Would  have  made  one  man  sure.    I  would  have  paid 
For  him  the  tiresome  price  of  body  and  soul, 
And  let  the  lash  of  a  tongue-weary  town 
Fall  as  it  might  upon  my  blistered  name; 
And  while  it  fell  I  could  have  laughed  at  it, 
Knowing  that  he  had  found  out  finally 
Where  the  wrong  was.    But  there  was  evil  in  him 
That  would  have  made  no  more  of  his  possession 
516 


RAHEL  TO  VARNHAGEN 

Than  confirmation  of  another  fault; 
And  there  was  honor — if  you  call  it  honor 
That  hoods  itself  with  doubt  and  wears  a  crown 
Of  lead  that  might  as  well  be  gold  and  fire. 
Give  it  as  heavy  or  as  light  a  name 
As  any  there  is  that  fits.    I  see  myself 
Without  the  power  to  swear  to  this  or  that 
That  I  might  be  if  he  had  been  without  it. 
Whatever  I  might  have  been  that  I  was  not, 
It  only  happened  that  it  wasn't  so. 
Meanwhile,  you  might  seem  to  be  listening: 
If  you  forget  yourself  and  go  to  sleep, 
My  treasure,  I  shall  not  say  this  again. 
Look  up  once  more  into  my  poor  old  face, 
Where  you  see  beauty,  or  the  Lord  knows  what, 
And  say  to  me  aloud  what  else  there  is 
Than  ruins  in  it  that  you  most  admire. 

No,  there  was  never  anything  like  that; 

Nature  has  never  fastened  such  a  mask 

Of  radiant  and  impenetrable  merit 

On  any  woman  as  you  say  there  is 

On  this  one.    Not  a  mask?    I  thank  you,  sir, 

But  you  see  more  with  your  determination, 

I  fear,  than  with  your  prudence  or  your  conscience; 

And  you  have  never  met  me  with  my  eyes 

In  all  the  mirrors  I've  made  faces  at. 

No,  I  shall  never  call  you  strange  again: 

You  are  the  young  and  inconvincible 

Epitome  of  all  blind  men  since  Adam. 

May  the  blind  lead  the  blind,  if  that  be  so  ? 

And  we  shall  need  no  mirrors?    You  are  saying 

What  most  I  feared  you  might.     But  if  the  blind, 

Or  one  of  them,  be  not  so  fortunate 

As  to  put  out  the  eyes  of  recollection, 

517 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

She  might  at  last,  without  her  meaning  it, 
Lead  on  the  other,  without  his  knowing  it, 
Until  the  two  of  them  should  lose  themselves 
Among  dead  craters  in  a  lava-field 
As  empty  as  a  desert  on  the  moon. 
I  am  not  speaking  in  a  theatre, 
But  in  a  room  so  real  and  so  familiar 
That  sometimes  I  would  wreck  it.     Then  I  pause, 
Kemembering  there  is  a  King  in  Weimar — 
A  monarch,  and  a  poet,  and  a  shepherd 
Of  all  who  are  astray  and  are  outside 
The  realm  where  they  should  rule.     I  think  of  him, 
And  save  the  furniture;  I  think  of  you, 
And  am  forlorn,  finding  in  you  the  one 
To  lavish  aspirations  and  illusions 
Upon  a  faded  and  forsaken  house 
Where  love,  being  locked  alone,  was  nigh  to  burning 
House  and  himself  together.    Yes,  you  are  strange, 
To  see  in  such  an  injured  architecture 
Room  for  new  love  to  live  in.    Are  you  laughing  ? 
No  ?    Well,  you  are  not  crying,  as  you  should  be. 
Tears,  even  if  they  told  only  gratitude 
For  your  escape,  and  had  no  other  story, 
Were  surely  more  becoming  than  a  smile 
For  my  unwomanly  straightforwardness 
In  seeing  for  you,  through  my  close  gate  of  years 
Your  forty  ways  to  freedom.    Why  do  you  smile  ? 
And  while  I'm  trembling  at  my  faith  in  you 
In  giving  you  to  read  this  book  of  danger 
That  only  one  man  living  might  have  written — 
These  letters,  which  have  been  a  part  of  me 
So  long  that  you  may  read  them  all  again 
As  often  as  you  look  into  my  face, 
And  hear  them  when  I  speak  to  you,  and  feel  them 
Whenever  you  have  to  touch  me  with  your  hand, — 
518 


RAHEL  TO  VARNHAGEN 

Why  are  you  so  unwilling  to  be  spared? 
Why  do  you  still  believe  in  me?    But  no, 
I'll  find  another  way  to  ask  you  that. 
I  wonder  if  there  is  another  way 
That  says  it  better,  and  means  anything. 
There  is  no  other  way  that  could  be  worse? 
I  was  not  asking  you;  it  was  myself 
Alone  that  I  was  asking.    Why  do  I  dip 
For  lies,  when  there  is  nothing  in  my  well 
But  shining  truth,  you  say?    How  do  you  know? 
Truth  has  a  lonely  life  down  where  she  lives; 
And  many  a  time,  when  she  comes  up  to  breathe, 
She  sinks  before  we  seize  her,  and  makes  ripples. 
Possibly  you  may  know  no  more  of  me 
Than  a  few  ripples;  and  they  may  soon  be  gone, 
Leaving  you  then  with  all  my  shining  truth 
Drowned  in  a  shining  water;  and  when  you  look 
You  may  not  see  me  there,  but  something  else 
That  never  was  a  woman — being  yourself. 
You  say  to  me  my  truth  is  past  all  drowning, 
And  safe  with  you  for  ever?    You  know  all  that? 
How  do  you  know  all  that,  and  who  has  told  you? 
You  know  so  much  that  I'm  an  atom  frightened 
Because  you  know  so  little.    And  what  is  this  ? 
You  know  the  luxury  there  is  in  haunting 
The  blasted  thoroughfares  of  disillusion — 
If  that's  your  name  for  them — with  only  ghosts 
For  company?    You  know  that  when  a  woman 
Is  blessed,  or  cursed,  with  a  divine  impatience 
(Another  name  of  yours  for  a  bad  temper) 
She  must  have  one  at  hand  on  whom  to  wreak  it 
(That's  what  you  mean,  whatever  the  turn  you  give  it), 
Sure  of  a  kindred  sympathy,  and  thereby 
Effect  a  mutual  calm?    You  know  that  wisdom, 
Given  in  vain  to  make  a  food  for  those 
519 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Who  are  without  it,  will  be  seen  at  last, 

And  even  at  last  only  by  those  who  gave  it, 

As  one  or  more  of  the  forgotten  crumbs 

That  others  leave  ?    You  know  that  men's  applause 

And  women's  envy  savor  so  much  of  dust 

That  I  go  hungry,  having  at  home  no  fare 

But  the  same  changeless  bread  that  I  may  swallow 

Only  with  tears  and  prayers  ?    Who  told  you  that  ? 

You  know  that  if  I  read,  and  read  alone, 

Too  many  books  that  no  men  yet  have  written, 

I  may  go  blind,  or  worse  ?    You  know  yourself, 

Of  all  insistent  and  insidious  creatures, 

To  be  the  one  to  save  me,  and  to  guard 

For  me  their  naming  language?     And  you  know 

That  if  I  give  much  headway  to  the  whim 

That's  in  me  never  to  be  quite  sure  that  even 

Through  all  those  years  of  storm  and  fire  I  waited 

For  this  one  rainy  day,  I  may  go  on, 

And  on,  and  on  alone,  through  smoke  and  ashes, 

To  a  cold  end?     You  know  so  dismal  much 

As  that  about  me?  .  .  .  Well,  I  believe  you  do. 


NIMMO 

SINCE  you  remember  Nimmo,  and  arrive 
At  such  a  false  and  florid  and  far  drawn 
Confusion  of  odd  nonsense,  I  connive 
No  longer,  though  I  may  have  led  you  on. 

So  much  is  told  and  heard  and  told  again, 
So  many  with  his  legend  are  engrossed, 
That  I,  more  sorry  now  than  I  was  then, 
May  live  on  to  be  sorry  for  his  ghost. 
520 


NIMMO 

You  knew  him,  and  you  must  have  known  his  eyes,- 
How  deep  they  were,  and  what  a  velvet  light 
Came  out  of  them  when  anger  or  surprise, 
Or  laughter,  or  Francesca,  made  them  bright. 

No,  you  will  not  forget  such  eyes,  I  think, — 
And  you  say  nothing  of  them.    Very  well. 
I  wonder  if  all  history's  worth  a  wink, 
Sometimes,  or  if  my  tale  be  one  to  tell. 

For  they  began  to  lose  their  velvet  light; 
Their  fire  grew  dead  without  and  small  within ; 
And  many  of  you  deplored  the  needless  fight 
That  somewhere  in  the  dark  there  must  have  been. 

All  fights  are  needless,  when  they're  not  our  own, 
But  Nimmo  and  Francesca  never  fought. 
Remember  that;  and  when  you  are  alone, 
Remember  me — and  think  what  I  have  thought. 

Now,  mind  you,  I  say  nothing  of  what  was, 
Or  never  was,  or  could  or  could  not  be: 
Bring  not  suspicion's  candle  to  the  glass 
That  mirrors  a  friend's  face  to  memory. 

Of  what  you  see,  see  all, — but  see  no  more; 
For  what  I  show  you  here  will  not  be  there. 
The  devil  has  had  his  way  with  paint  before, 
And  he's  an  artist, — and  you  needn't  stare. 

There  was  a  painter  and  he  painted  well: 
He'd  paint  you  Daniel  in  the  lion's  den, 
Beelzebub,  Elaine,  or  William  Tell. 
I'm  coming  back  to  Nimmo's  eyes  again. 
521 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  painter  put  the  devil  in  those  eyes, 
Unless  the  devil  did,  and  there  he  stayed; 
And  then  the  lady  fled  from  paradise, 
And  there's  your  fact.    The  lady  was  afraid.. 

She  must  have  been  afraid,  or  may  have  been, 
Of  evil  in  their  velvet  all  the  while; 
But  sure  as  I'm  a  sinner  with  a  skin, 
I'll  trust  the  man  as  long  as  he  can  smile. 

I  trust  him  who  can  smile  and  then  may  live 
In  my  heart's  house,  where  Nimmo  is  today. 
God  knows  if  I  have  more  than  men  forgive 
To  tell  him;  but  I  played,  and  I  shall  pay. 

I  knew  him  then,  and  if  I  know  him  yet, 

I  know  in  him,  defeated  and  estranged, 

The  calm  of  men  forbidden  to  forget 

The  calm  of  women  who  have  loved  and  changed. 

But  there  are  ways  that  are  beyond  our  ways, 
Or  he  would  not  be  calm  and  she  be  mute, 
As  one  by  one  their  lost  and  empty  days 
Pass  without  even  the  warmth  of  a  dispute. 

God  help  us  all  when  women  think  they  see; 
God  save  us  when  they  do.    I'm  fair;  but  though 
I  know  him  only  as  he  looks  to  me, 
I  know  him, — and  I  tell  Francesca  so. 

And  what  of  Nimmo?    Little  would  you  ask 
Of  him,  could  you  but  see  him  as  I  can, 
At  his  bewildered  and  unfruitful  task 
Of  being  what  he  was  born  to  be — a  man. 
522 


PEACE  ON  EARTH 

Better  forget  that  I  said  anything 
Of  what  your  tortured  memory  may  disclose; 
I  know  him,  and  your  worst  remembering 
Would  count  as  much  as  nothing,  I  suppose. 

Meanwhile,  I  trust  him ;  and  I  know  his  way 
Of  trusting  me,  and  always  in  his  youth. 
I'm  painting  here  a  better  man,  you  say, 
Than  I,  the  painter;  and  you  say  the  truth. 


PEACE  ON  EARTH 

HE  took  a  frayed  hat  from  his  head, 
And  "Peace  on  Earth"  was  what  he  said. 
"A  morsel  out  of  what  you're  worth, 
And  there  we  have  it :  Peace  on  Earth. 
Not  much,  although  a  little  more 
Than  what  there  was  on  earth  before 
I'm  as  you  see,  I'm  Ichabod, — 
But  never  mind  the  ways  I've  trod ; 
I'm  sober  now,  so  help  me  God." 

I  could  not  pass  the  fellow  by. 
"Do  you  believe  in  God?"  said  I; 
"And  is  there  to  be  Peace  on  Earth  ?" 

"Tonight  we  celebrate  the  birth," 
He  said,  "of  One  who  died  for  men; 
The  Son  of  God,  we  say.    What  then  ? 
Your  God,  or  mine?     I'd  make  you  laugh 
Were  I  to  tell  you  even  half 
That  I  have  learned  of  mine  today 
Where  yours  would  hardly  seem  to  stay. 
523 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Could  He  but  follow  in  and  out 
Some  anthropoids  I  know  about, 
The  god  to  whom  you  may  have  prayed 
Might  see  a  world  He  never  made." 

"Your  words  are  flowing  full,"  said  I; 
"But  yet  they  give  me  no  reply; 
Your  fountain  might  as  well  be  dry." 

"A  wiser  One  than  you,  my  friend, 
Would  wait  and  hear  me  to  the  end ; 
And  for  his  eyes  a  light  would  shine 
Through  this  unpleasant  shell  of  mine 
That  in  your  fancy  makes  of  me 
A  Christmas  curiosity. 
All  right,  I  might  be  worse  than  that; 
And  you  might  now  be  lying  flat; 
I  might  have  done  it  from  behind, 
And  taken  what  there  was  to  find. 
Don't  worry,  for  I'm  not  that  kind. 
'Do  I  believe  in  God  ?'    Is  that 
The  price  tonight  of  a  new  hat? 
Has  he  commanded  that  his  name 
Be  written  everywhere  the  same? 
Have  all  who  live  in  every  place 
Identified  his  hidden  face? 
Who  knows  but  he  may  like  as  well 
My  story  as  one  you  may  tell? 
And  if  he  show  me  there  be  Peace 
On  Earth,  as  there  be  fields  and  trees 
Outside  a  jail-yard,  am  I  wrong 
If  now  I  sing  him  a  new  song? 
Your  world  is  in  yourself,  my  friend, 
For  your  endurance  to  the  end; 
And  all  the  Peace  there  is  on  Earth 
524 


LATE  SUMMER 

Is  faith  in  what  your  world  is  worth, 
And  saying,  without  any  lies, 
Your  world  could  not  be  otherwise." 

"One  might  say  that  and  then  be  shot," 
I  told  him;  and  he  said:    "Why  not?" 
I  ceased,  and  gave  him  rather  more 
Than  he  was  counting  of  my  store. 
"And  since  I  have  it,  thanks  to  you, 
Don't  ask  me  what  I  mean  to  do," 
Said  he.     "Believe  that  even  I 
Would  rather  tell  the  truth  than  lie — 
On  Christmas  Eve.    No  matter  why." 

His  unshaved,  educated  face, 

His  inextinguishable  grace. 

And  his  hard  smile,  are  with  me  still, 

Deplore  the  vision  as  I  will; 

For  whatsoever  he  be  at, 

So  droll  a  derelict  as  that 

Should  have  at  least  another  hat. 


LATE  SUMMER 

(ALCAICS) 

CONFUSED,,  he  found  her  lavishing  feminine 
Gold  upon  clay,  and  found  her  inscrutable; 

And  yet  she  smiled.    Why,  then,  should  horrors 
Be  as  they  were,  without  end,  her  playthings  ? 

And  why  were  dead  years  hungrily  telling  her 
Lies  of  the  dead,  who  told  them  again  to  her? 

If  now  she  knew,  there  might  be  kindness 
Clamoring  yet  where  a  faith  lay  stifled. 
525 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

A  little  faith  in  him,  and  the  ruinous 
Past  would  be  for  time  to  annihilate, 

And  wash  out,  like  a  tide  that  washes 
Out  of  the  sand  what  a  child  has  drawn  there. 

God,  what  a  shining  handful  of  happiness, 
Made  out  of  days  and  out  of  eternities, 

Were  now  the  pulsing  end  of  patience — 
Could  he  but  have  what  a  ghost  had  stolen  I 

What  was  a  man  before  him,  or  ten  of  them, 
While  he  was  here  alive  who  could  answer  them, 

And  in  their  teeth  fling  confirmations 
Harder  than  agates  against  an  egg-shell? 

But  now  the  man  was  dead,  and  would  come  again 
Never,  though  she  might  honor  ineffably 
The  flimsy  wraith  of  him  she  conjured 
Out  of  a  dream  with  his  wand  of  absence. 

And  if  the  truth  were  now  but  a  mummery, 
Meriting  pride's  implacable  irony, 

So  much  the  worse  for  pride.    Moreover, 
Save  her  or  fail,  there  was  conscience  always. 

Meanwhile,  a  few  misgivings  of  innocence, 
Imploring  to  be  sheltered  and  credited, 

Were  not  amiss  when  she  revealed  them. 
Whether  she  struggled  or  not,  he  saw  them. 

Also,  he  saw  that  while  she  was  hearing  him 
Her  eyes  had  more  and  more  of  the  past  in  them ; 

And  while  he  told  what  cautious  honor 
Told  him  was  all  he  had  best  be  sure  of, 
526 


LATE  SUMMER 

He  wondered  once  or  twice,  inadvertently, 
Where  shifting  winds  were  driving  his  argosies, 

Long  anchored  and  as  long  unladen, 
Over  the  foam  for  the  golden  chances. 

"If  men  were  not  for  killing  so  carelessly, 
And  women  were  for  wiser  endurances," 

He  said,  "we  might  have  yet  a  world  here 
Fitter  for  Truth  to  be  seen  ahroad  in; 

"If  Truth  were  not  so  strange  in  her  nakedness, 
And  we  were  less  forbidden  to  look  at  it, 

We  might  not  have  to  look."    He  stared  then 
Down  at  the  sand  where  the  tide  threw  forward 

Its  cold,  unconquered  lines,  that  unceasingly 
Foamed  against  hope,  and  fell.    He  was  calm  enough, 

Although  he  knew  he  might  be  silenced 
Out  of  all  calm;  and  the  night  was  coming. 

"I  climb  for  you  the  peak  of  his  infamy 

That  you  may  choose  your  fall  if  you  cling  to  it. 

No  more  for  me  unless  you  say  more. 
All  you  have  left  of  a  dream  defends  you: 

"The  truth  may  be  as  evil  an  augury 
As  it  was  needful  now  for  the  two  of  us. 

We  cannot  have  the  dead  between  us. 
Tell  me  to  go,  and  I  go." — She  pondered: 

"What  you  believe  is  right  for  the  two  of  us 
Makes  it  as  right  that  you  are  not  one  of  us. 

If  this  be  needful  truth  you  tell  me, 
Spare  me,  and  let  me  have  lies  hereafter." 
527 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

She  gazed  away  where  shadows  were  covering 
The  whole  cold  ocean's  healing  indifference. 
No  ship  was  coming.    When  the  darkness 
Fell,  she  was  there,  and  alone,  still  gazing. 


AN  EVANGELIST'S  WIFE 

<fWHY  am  I  not  myself  these  many  days, 
You  ask  ?    And  have  you  nothing  more  to  ask  ? 
I  do  you  wrong?    I  do  not  hear  your  praise 
To  God  for  giving  you  me  to  share  your  task  ? 

"Jealous — of  Her?    Because  her  cheeks  are  pink, 
And  she  has  eyes  ?    No,  not  if  she  had  seven. 
If  you  should  only  steal  an  hour  to  think, 
Sometime,  there  might  be  less  to  be  forgiven. 

"No,  you  are  never  cruel.    If  once  or  twice 
I  found  you  so,  I  could  applaud  and  sing. 
Jealous  of — What?    You  are  not  very  wise. 
Does  not  the  good  Book  tell  you  anything? 

"In  David's  time  poor  Michal  had  to  go. 
Jealous  of  God  ?    Well,  if  you  like  it  so." 


THE  OLD   KING'S   NEW  JESTER 

You  that  in  vain  would  front  the  coming  order 
With  eyes  that  meet  forlornly  what  they  must, 
And  only  with  a  furtive  recognition 
See  dust  where  there  is  dust, — 
Be  sure  you  like  it  always  in  your  faces, 
528 


THE  OLD  KING'S  NEW  JESTER 

Obscuring  your  best  graces, 
Blinding  your  speech  and  sight, 
Before  you  seek  again  your  dusty  places 
Where  the  old  wrong  seems  right. 

Longer  ago  than  cave-men  had  their  changes 

Our  fathers  may  have  slain  a  son  o-  two, 

Discouraging  a  further  dialectic 

Regarding  what  was  new; 

And  after  their  unstudied  admonition 

Occasional  contrition 

For  their  old-fashioned  ways 

May  have  reduced  their  doubts,  and  in  addition 

Softened  their  final  days. 

Farther  away  than  feet  shall  ever  travel 

Are  the  vague  towers  of  our  unbuilded  State; 

But  there  are  mightier  things  than  we  to  lead  us, 

That  will  not  let  us  wait. 

And  we  go  on  with  none  to  tell  us  whether 

Or  not  we've  each  a  tether 

Determining  how  fast  or  how  far  we  go ; 

And  it  is  well,  since  we  must  go  together, 

That  we  are  not  to  know. 

If  the  old  wrong  and  all  its  injured  glamour 
Haunts  you  by  day  and  gives  your  night  no  peace, 
You  may  as  well,  agreeably  and  serenely, 
Give  the  new  wrong  its  lease; 
For  should  you  nourish  a  too  fervid  yearning 
For  what  is  not  returning, 
The  vicious  and  unfused  ingredient 
May  give  you  qualms — and  one  or  two  concerning 
The  last  of  your  content. 
529 


COLLECTED  POEMS 


LAZARUS 

"No,  Mary,  there  was  nothing — not  a  word. 

Nothing,  and  always  nothing.  Go  again 

Yourself,  and  he  may  listen — or  at  least 

Look  up  at  you,  and  let  you  see  his  eyes. 

I  might  as  well  have  been  the  sound  of  rain, 

A  wind  among  the  cedars,  or  a  bird ; 

Or  nothing.    Mary,  make  him  look  at  you ; 

And  even  if  he  should  say  that  we  are  nothing, 

To  know  that  you  have  heard  him  will  be  something. 

And  yet  he  loved  us,  and  it  was  for  love 

The  Master  gave  him  back.     Why  did  he  wait 

So  long  before  he  came?    Why  did  he  weep? 

I  thought  he  would  be  glad — and  Lazarus — 

To  see  us  all  again  as  he  had  left  us — 

All  as  it  was,  all  as  it  was  before." 

Mary,  who  felt  her  sister's  frightened  arms 
Like  those  of  someone  drowning  who  had  seized  her, 
Fearing  at  last  they  were  to  fail  and  sink 
Together  in  this  fog-stricken  sea  of  strangeness, 
Fought  sadly,  with  bereaved  indignant  eyes, 
To  find  again  the  fading  shores  of  home 
That  she  had  seen  but  now  could  see  no  longer 
Now  she  could  only  gaze  into  the  twilight, 
And  in  the  dimness  know  that  he  was  there, 
Like  someone  that  was  not.    He  who  had  been 
Their  brother,  and  was  dead,  now  seemed  alive 
Only  in  death  again — or  worse  than  death; 
For  tombs  at  least,  always  until  today, 
Though  sad  were  certain.    There  was  nothing  certain 
For  man  or  God  in  such  a  day  as  this; 
For  there  they  were  alone,  and  there  was  he — 

530 


LAZARUS 

Alone;  and  somewhere  out  of  Bethany, 

The  Master — who  had  come  to  them  so  late, 

Only  for  love  of  them  and  then  so  slowly, 

And  was  for  their  sake  hunted  now  by  men 

Who  feared  Him  as  they  feared  no  other  prey — 

For  the  world's  sake  was  hidden.     "Better  the  tomb 

For  Lazarus  than  life,  if  this  be  life," 

She  thought;  and  then  to  Martha,  "No,  my  dear," 

She  said  aloud;  "not  as  it  was  before. 

Nothing  is  ever  as  it  was  before, 

Where  Time  has  been.    Here  there  is  more  than  Time; 

And  we  that  are  so  lonely  and  so  far 

From  home,  since  he  is  with  us  here  again, 

Are  farther  now  from  him  and  from  ourselves 

Than  we  are  from  the  stars.    He  will  not  speak 

Until  the  spirit  that  is  in  him  speaks; 

And  we  must  wait  for  all  we  are  to  know, 

Or  even  to  learn  that  we  are  not  to  know. 

Martha,  we  are  too  near  to  this  for  knowledge, 

And  that  is  why  it  is  that  we  must  wait. 

Our  friends  are  coming  if  we  call  for  them, 

And  there  are  covers  we'll  put  over  him 

To  make  him  warmer.    We  are  too  young,  perhaps, 

To  say  that  we  know  better  what  is  best 

Than  he.    We  do  not  know  how  old  he  is. 

If  you  remember  what  the  Master  said, 

Try  to  believe  that  we  need  have  no  fear. 

Let  me,  the  selfish  and  the  careless  one, 

Be  housewife  and  a  mother  for  tonight; 

For  I  am  not  so  fearful  as  you  are, 

And  I  was  not  so  eager." 

Martha  sank 

Down  at  her  sister's  feet  and  there  sat  watching 
A  flower  that  had  a  small  familiar  name 

531 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  was  as  old  as  memory,  but  was  not 

The  name  of  what  she  saw  now  in  its  brief 

And  infinite  mystery  that  so  frightened  her 

That  life  became  a  terror.    Tears  again 

Flooded  her  eyes  and  overflowed.     "No,  Mary," 

She  murmured  slowly,  hating  her  own  words 

Before  she  heard  them,  "you  are  not  so  eager 

To  see  our  brother  as  we  see  him  now; 

Neither  is  he  who  gave  him  back  to  us. 

I  was  to  be  the  simple  one,  as  always, 

And  this  was  all  for  me."    She  stared  again 

Over  among  the  trees  where  Lazarus, 

Who  seemed  to  be  a  man  who  was  not  there, 

Might  have  been  one  more  shadow  among  shadows, 

If  she  had  not  remembered.    Then  she  felt 

The  cool  calm  hands  of  Mary  on  her  face, 

And  shivered,  wondering  if  such  hands  were  real. 

"The  Master  loved  you  as  he  loved  us  all, 

Martha;  and  you  are  saying  only  things 

That  children  say  when  they  have  had  no  sleep. 

Try  somehow  now  to  rest  a  little  while ; 

You  know  that  I  am  here,  and  that  our  friends 

Are  coming  if  I  call." 

Martha  at  last 

Arose,  and  went  with  Mary  to  the  door, 
Where  they  stood  looking  off  at  the  same  place, 
And  at  the  same  shape  that  was  always  there 
As  if  it  would  not  ever  move  or  speak, 
And  always  would  be  there.     "Mary,  go  now, 
Before  the  dark  that  will  be  coming  hides  him. 
I  am  afraid  of  him  out  there  alone, 
Unless  I  see  him;  and  I  have  forgotten 
What  sleep  is.    Go  now — make  him  look  at  you — 

532 


LAZARUS 

And  I  shall  hear  him  if  he  stirs  or  whispers. 

Go ! — or  I'll  scream  and  bring  all  Bethany 

To  come  and  make  him  speak.    Make  him  say  once 

That  he  is  glad,  and  God  may  say  the  rest. 

Though  He  say  I  shall  sleep,  and  sleep  for  ever, 

I  shall  not  care  for  that  .  .  .  Go !" 

Mary,  moving 

Almost  as  if  an  angry  child  had  pushed  her, 
Went  forward  a  few  steps;  and  having  waited 
As  long  as  Martha's  eyes  would  look  at  hers, 
Went  forward  a  few  more,  and  a  few  more; 
And  so,  until  she  came  to  Lazarus, 
Who  crouched  with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands, 
Like  one  that  had  no  face.     Before  she  spoke, 
Feeling  her  sister's  eyes  that  were  behind  her 
As  if  the  door  where  Martha  stood  were  now 
As  far  from  her  as  Egypt,  Mary  turned 
Once  more  to  see  that  she  was  there.     Then,  softly, 
Fearing  him  not  so  much  as  wondering 
What  his  first  word  might  be,  said,  "Lazarus, 
Forgive  us  if  we  seemed  afraid  of  you;" 
And  having  spoken,  pitied  her  poor  speech 
That  had  so  little  seeming  gladness  in  it, 
So  little  comfort,  and  so  little  love. 

There  was  no  sign  from  him  that  he  had  heard, 
Or  that  he  knew  that  she  was  there,  or  cared 
Whether  she  spoke  to  him  again  or  died 
There  at  his  feet.    "We  love  you,  Lazarus, 
And  we  are  not  afraid.     The  Master  said 
We  need  not  be  afraid.    Will  you  not  say 
To  me  that  you  are  glad  ?    Look,  Lazarus ! 
Look  at  my  face,  and  see  me.     This  is  Mary." 

533 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

She  found  his  hands  and  held  them.    They  were  cool, 
Like  hers,  but  they  were  not  so  calm  as  hers. 
Through  the  white  robes  in  which  his  friends  had  wrapped  him 
When  he  had  groped  out  of  that  awful  sleep, 
She  felt  him  trembling  and  she  was  afraid. 
At  last  he  sighed ;  and  she  prayed  hungrily 
To  God  that  she  might  hear  again  the  voice 
Of  Lazarus,  whose  hands  were  giving  her  now 
The  recognition  of  a  living  pressure 
That  was  almost  a  language.    When  he  spoke, 
/   Only  one  word  that  she  had  waited  for 

Came  from  his  lips,  and  that  word  was  her  name. 

"I  heard  them  saying,  Mary,  that  he  wept 
Before  I  woke."     The  words  were  low  and  shaken, 
Yet  Mary  knew  that  he  who  uttered  them 
J  Was  Lazarus ;  and  that  would  be  enough 
Until  there  should  be  more  .  .  .  "Who  made  him  come, 
That  he  should  weep  for  me?  .  .  .  Was  it  you,  Mary?" 
The  questions  held  in  his  incredulous  eyes 
Were  more  than  she  would  see.    She  looked  away ; 
But  she  had  felt  them  and  should  feel  for  ever, 
She  thought,  their  cold  and  lonely  desperation 
That  had  the  bitterness  of  all  cold  things 
That  were  not  cruel.     "I  should  have  wept,"  he  said, 
"If  I  had  been  the  Master.  .  .  ." 

Now  she  could  feel 

His  hands  above  her  hair — the  same  black  hair 
That  once  he  made  a  jest  of,  praising  it, 
While  Martha's  busy  eyes  had  left  their  work 
To  flash  with  laughing  envy.     Nothing  of  that 
Was  to  be  theirs  again ;  and  such  a  thought 
Was  like  the  flying  by  of  a  quick  bird 
Seen  through  a  shadowy  doorway  in  the  twilight. 

534 


LAZARUS 

For  now  she  felt  his  hands  upon  her  head, 

Like  weights  of  kindness :  "I  forgive  you,  Mary.  .  .  . 

You  did  not  know — Martha  could  not  have  known — 

Only  the  Master  knew.  .  .  .  Where  is  he  now? 

Yes,  I  remember.     They  came  after  him. 

May  the  good  God  forgive  him.  ...  I  forgive  him. 

I  must;  and  I  may  know  only  from  him 

The  burden  of  all  this.  .  .  Martha  was  here — 

But  I  was  not  yet  here.    She  was  afraid.  .  .  . 

Why  did  he  do  it,  Mary?     Was  it — you?  i 

Was  it  for  you?  .  .  .  Where  are  the  friends  I  saw? 

Yes,  I  remember.     They  all  went  away. 

I  made  them  go  away.  .  .  .  Where  is  he  now  ?  .  .  . 

What  do  I  see  down  there?    Do  I  see  Martha — 

Down  by  the  door  ?  .  .  .  I  must  have  time  for  this." 

Lazarus  looked  about  him  fearfully, 

And  then  again  at  Mary,  who  discovered 

Awakening  apprehension  in  his  eyes, 

And  shivered  at  his  feet.     All  she  had  feared 

Was  here;  and  only  in  the  slow  reproach 

Of  his  forgiveness  lived  his  gratitude. 

Why  had  he  asked  if  it  was  all  for  her 

That  he  was  here?     And  what  had  Martha  meant?    * 

Why  had  the  Master  waited?     What  was  coming 

To  Lazarus,  and  to  them,  that  had  not  come? 

What  had  the  Master  seen  before  he  came, 

That  he  had  come  so  late? 

"Where  is  he,  Mary?" 

Lazarus  asked  again.     "Where  did  he  go?" 
Once  more  he  gazed  about  him,  and  once  more 
At  Mary  for  an  answer.     "Have  they  found  him? 
Or  did  he  go  away  because  he  wished 

535 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Never  to  look  into  my  eyes  again?  .  .  . 

That,  I  could  understand.  .  .  .  Where  is  he,  Mary?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said.    "Yet  in  my  heart 

I  know  that  he  is  living,  as  you  are  living — 

Living,  and  here.    He  is  not  far  from  us. 

He  will  come  back  to  us  and  find  us  all — 

Lazarus,   Martha,   Mary — everything — 

All  as  it  was  before.    Martha  said  that. 

And  he  said  we  were  not  to  be  afraid." 

Lazarus  closed  his  eyes  while  on  his  face 

A  tortured  adumbration  of  a  smile 

Flickered  an  instant.    "All  as  it  was  before," 

He  murmured  wearily.     "Martha  said  that; 

And  he  said  you  were  not  to  be  afraid  .  .  . 

Not  you  .  .  .  Not  you  .  .  .  Why  should  you  be  afraid? 

Give  all  your  little  fears,  and  Martha's  with  them, 

To  me;  and  I  will  add  them  unto  mine, 

Like  a  few  rain-drops  to  Gennesaret." 

"If  you  had  frightened  me  in  other  ways, 

Not  willing  it,"  Mary  said,  "I  should  have  known 

You  still  for  Lazarus.    But  who  is  this  ? 

Tell  me  again  that  you  are  Lazarus; 

And  tell  me  if  the  Master  gave  to  you 

No  sign  of  a  new  joy  that  shall  be  coming 

To  this  house  that  he  loved.     Are  you  afraid? 

Are  you  afraid,  who  have  felt  everything — 

And  seen  .  .  .?" 

But  Lazarus  only  shook  his  head, 
Staring  with  his  bewildered  shining  eyes 
Hard  into  Mary's  face.     "I  do  not  know, 
Mary,"  he  said,  after  a  long  time. 
"When  I  came  back,  I  knew  the  Master's  eyes 

536 


LAZARUS 

Were  looking  into  mine.     I  looked  at  his, 
And  there  was  more  in  them  than  I  could  see. 
At  first  I  could  see  nothing  but  his  eyes; 
Nothing  else  anywhere  was  to  be  seen — 
Only  his  eyes.     And  they  looked  into  mine — 
Long  into  mine,  Mary,  as  if  he  knew." 

Mary  began  to  be  afraid  of  words      """ 
As  she  had  never  been  afraid  before 
Of  loneliness  or  darkness,  or   of  death, 
But  now  she  must  have  more  of  them  or  die: 
"He  cannot  know  that  there  is  worse  than  death," 
She  said.     "And  you  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  there  is  worse  than  death." 
Said  Lazarus;  "and  that  was  what  he  knew; 
And  that  is  what  it  was  that  I  could  see 
This  morning  in  his  eyes.     I  was  afraid, 
But  not  as  you  are.     There  is  worse  than  death, 
Mary;  and  there  is  nothing  that  is  good 
For  you  in  dying  while  you  are  still  here. 
Mary,  never  go  back  to  that  again. 
You  would  not  hear  me  if  I  told  you  more, 
For  I  should  say  it  only  in  a  language 
That  you  are  not  to  learn  by  going  back. 
To  be  a  child  again  is  to  go  forward — 
And  that  is  much  to  know.     Many  grow  old, 
And  fade,  and  go  away,  not  knowing  how  much 
That  is  to  know.     Mary,  the  night  is  coming, 
And  there  will  soon  be  darkness  all  around  you. 
Let  us  go  down  where  Martha  waits  for  us, 
And  let  there  be  light  shining  in  this  house." 

He  rose,  but  Mary  would  not  let  him  go : 
"Martha,  when  she  came  back  from  here,  said  only 

537 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  she  heard  nothing.    And  have  you  no  more 
For  Mary  now  than  you  had  then  for  Martha? 
Is  Nothing,  Lazarus,  all  you  have  for  me  ? 
Was  Nothing  all  you  found  where  you  have  been? 
If  that  be  so,  what  is  there  worse  than  that — 
Or  better — if  that  be  so  ?    And  why  should  you, 
With  even  our  love,  go  the  same  dark  road  over?" 

"I  could  not  answer  that,  if  that  were  so," 
Said  Lazarus, — "not  even  if  I  were  God. 
Why  should  He  care  whether  I  came  or  stayed, 
If  that  were  so?    Why  should  the  Master  weep — 
For  me,  or  for  the  world, — or  save  himself 
Longer  for  nothing?     And  if  that  were  so, 
Why  should  a  few  years'  more  mortality 
Make  him  a  fugitive  where  flight  were  needless, 
Had  he  but  held  his  peace  and  given  his  nod 
To  an  old  Law  that  would  be  new  as  any? 
I  cannot  say  the  answer  to  all  that; 
Though  I  may  say  that  he  is  not  afraid, 
And  that  it  is  not  for  the  joy  there  is 
In  serving  an  eternal  Ignorance 
Of  our  futility  that  he  is  here. 
Is  that  what  you  and  Martha  mean  by  Nothing  ? 
Is  that  what  you  are  fearing  ?    If  that  be  so, 
There  are  more  weeds  than  lentils  in  your  garden. 
And  one  whose  weeds  are  laughing  at  his  harvest 
May  as  well  have  no  garden ;  for  not  there 
Shall  he  be  gleaning  the  few  bits  and  orts 
Of  life  that  are  to  save  him.    For  my  part, 
I  am  again  with  you,  here  among  shadows 
That  will  not  always  be  so  dark  as  this; 
Though  now  I  see  there's  yet  an  evil  in  me 
That  made  me  let  you  be  afraid  of  me. 
No,  I  was  not  afraid — not  even  of  life. 

538 


LAZARUS 

I  thought  I  was  ...  I  must  have  time  for  this ; 

And  all  the  time  there  is  will  not  be  long. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  the  Master  saw 

This  morning  in  my  eyes.    I  do  not  know. 

I  cannot  yet  say  how  far  I  have  gone, 

Or  why  it  is  that  I  am  here  again, 

Or  where  the  old  road  leads.    I  do  not  know. 

I  know  that  when  I  did  come  back,  I  saw 

His  eyes  again  among  the  trees  and  faces — 

Only  his  eyes;  and  they  looked  into  mine — 

Long  into  mine — long,  long,  as  if  he  knew." 


539 


AVON'S  HARVEST,  ETC. 

(1921) 
To  Seth  Ellis  Pope 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

FEAR,  like  a  living  fire  that  only  death 

Might  one  day  cool,  had  now  in  Avon's  eyes 

Been  witness  for  so  long  of  an  invasion 

That  made  of  a  gay  friend  whom  we  had  known 

Almost  a  memory,  wore  no  other  name 

As  yet  for  us  than  fear.    Another  man 

Than  Avon  might  have  given  to  us  at  least 

A  futile  opportunity  for  words 

We  might  regret.     But  Avon,  since  it  happened, 

Fed  with  his  unrevealing  reticence 

The  fire  of  death  we  saw  that  horribly 

Consumed  him  while  he  crumbled  and  said  nothing. 

So  many  a  time  had  I  been  on  the  edge, 
And  off  again,  of  a  foremeasured  fall 
Into  the  darkness  and  discomfiture 
Of  his  oblique  rebuff,  that  finally 
My  silence  honored  his,  holding  itself 
Away  from  a  gratuitous  intrusion 
That  likely  would  have  widened  a  new  distance 
Already  wide  enough,  if  not  so  new. 
But  there  are  seeming  parallels  in  space 
That  may  converge  in  time;  and  so  it  was 
I  walked  with  Avon,  fought  and  pondered  with  him, 
While  he  made  out  a  case  for  So-and-so, 
Or  slaughtered  What's-his-name  in  his  old  way, 
With  a  new  difference.    Nothing  in  Avon  lately 
543 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Was,  or  was  ever  again  to  be  for  us, 
Like  him  that  we  remembered;  and  all  the  while 
We  saw  that  fire  at  work  within  his  eyes 
And  had  no  glimpse  of  what  was  burning  there. 

So  for  a  year  it  went ;  and  so  it  went 
For  half  another  year — when,  all  at  once, 
At  someone's  tinkling  afternoon  at  home 
I  saw  that  in  the  eyes  of  Avon's  wife 
The  fire  that  I  had  met  the  day  before 
In  his  had  found  another  living  fuel. 
To  look  at  her  and  then  to  think  of  him, 
And  thereupon  to  contemplate  the  fall 
Of  a  dim  curtain  over  the  dark  end 
Of  a  dark  play,  required  of  me  no  more 
Clairvoyance  than  a  man  who  cannot  swim 
Will  exercise  in  seeing  that  his  friend 
Off  shore  will  drown  except  he  save  himself. 
To  her  I  could  say  nothing,  and  to  him 
No  more  than  tallied  with  a  long  belief 
That  I  should  only  have  it  back  again 
For  my  chagrin  to  ruminate  upon, 
Ingloriously,  for  the  still  time  it  starved; 
And  that  would  be  for  me  as  long  a  time 
As  I  remembered  Avon — who  is  yet 
Not  quite  forgotten.    On  the  other  hand, 
For  saying  nothing  I  might  have  with  me  always 
An  injured  and  recriminating  ghost 
Of  a  dead  friend.    The  more  I  pondered  it 
The  more  I  knew  there  was  not  much  to  lose, 
Albeit  for  one  whose  delving  hitherto 
Had  been  a  forage  of  his  own  affairs, 
The  quest,  however  golden  the  reward, 
Was  irksome — and  as  Avon  suddenly 
And  soon  was  driven  to  let  me  see,  was  needless. 
544 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

It  seemed  an  age  ago  that  we  were  there 

One  evening  in  the  room  that  in  the  days 

When  they  could  laugh  he  called  the  Library. 

"He  calls  it  that,  you  understand,"  she  said, 

"Because  the  dictionary  always  lives  here. 

He's  not  a  man  of  books,  yet  he  can  read, 

And  write.    He  learned  it  all  at  school." — He  smiled, 

And  answered  with  a  fervor  that  rang  then 

Superfluous :     "Had  I  learned  a  little  more 

At  school,  it  might  have  been  as  well  for  me." 

And  I  remember  now  that  he  paused  then, 

Leaving  a  silence  that  one  had  to  break. 

But  this  was  long  ago,  and  there  was  now 

No  laughing  in  that  house.    We  were  alone 

This  time,  and  it  was  Avon's  time  to  talk. 

I  waited,  and  anon  became  aware 
That  I  was  looking  less  at  Avon's  eyes 
Than  at  the  dictionary,  like  one  asking 
Already  why  we  make  so  much  of  words 
That  have  so  little  weight  in  the  true  balance. 
"Your  name  is  Resignation  for  an  hour," 
He  said;  "and  I'm  a  little  sorry  for  you. 
So  be  resigned.    I  shall  not  praise  your  work, 
Or  strive  in  any  way  to  make  you  happy. 
My  purpose  only  is  to  make  you  know 
How  clearly  I  have  known  that  you  have  known 
There  was  a  reason  waited  on  your  coming, 
And,  if  it's  in  me  to  see  clear  enough, 
To  fish  the  reason  out  of  a  black  well 
Where  you  see  only  a  dim  sort  of  glimmer 
That  has  for  you  no  light." 

"I  see  the  well," 

I  said,  "but  there's  a  doubt  about  the  glimmer — 
545 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Say  nothing  of  tho  light.    I'm  at  your  service; 

And  though  you  say  that  I  shall  not  be  happy, 

I  shall  be  if  in  some  way  I  may  serve. 

To  tell  you  fairly  now  that  I  know  nothing 

Is  nothing  more  than  fair." — "You  know  as  much 

As  any  man  alive — save  only  one  man, 

If  he's  alive.    Whether  he  lives  or  not 

Is  rather  for  time  to  answer  than  for  me; 

And  that's  a  reason,  or  a  part  of  one, 

For  your  appearance  here.    You  do  not  know  him, 

And  even  if  you  should  pass  him  in  the  street 

He  might  go  by  without  your  feeling  him 

Between  you  and  the  world.    I  cannot  say 

Whether  he  would,  but  I  suppose  he  might." 

"And  I  suppose  you  might,  if  urged,"  I  said, 

"Say  in  what  water  it  is  that  we  are  fishing. 

You  that  have  reasons  hidden  in  a  well, 

Not  mentioning  all  your  nameless  friends  that  walk 

The  streets  and  are  not  either  dead  or  living 

For  company,  are  surely,  one  would  say 

To  be  forgiven  if  you  may  seem  distraught — 

I  mean  distrait.     I  don't  know  what  I  mean. 

I  only  know  that  I  am  at  your  service, 

Always,  yet  with  a  special  reservation 

That  you  may  deem  eccentric.     All  the  same 

Unless  your  living  dead  man  comes  to  life, 

Or  is  less  indiscriminately  dead, 

I  shall  go  home." 

"No,  you  will  not  go  home," 
Said  Avon;  "or  I  beg  that  you  will  not." 
So  saying,  he  went  slowly  to  the  door 
And  turned  the  key.    "Forgive  me  and  my  manners, 
But  I  would  be  alone  with  you  this  evening. 
546 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

The  key,  as  you  observe,  is  in  the  lock; 

And  you  may  sit  between  me  and  the  door, 

Or  where  you  will.    You  have  my  word  of  honor 

That  I  would  spare  you  the  least  injury 

That  might  attend  your  presence  here  this  evening." 

"I  thank  you  for  your  soothing  introduction, 
Avon,"  I  said.     "Go  on.     The  Lord  giveth, 
The  Lord  taketh  away.     I  trust  myself 
Always  to  you  and  to  your  courtesy. 
Only  remember  that  I  cling  somewhat 
Affectionately  to  the  old  tradition." — 
"I  understand  you  and  your  part,"  said  Avon; 
"And  I  dare  say  it's  well  enough,  tonight, 
We  play  around  the  circumstance  a  little. 
I've  read  of  men  that  half  way  to  the  stake 
Would  have  their  little  joke.    It's  well  enough; 
Rather  a  waste  of  time,  but  well  enough." 

I  listened  as  I  waited,  and  heard  steps 
Outside  of  one  who  paused  and  then  went  on; 
And,  having  heard,  I  might  as  well  have  seen 
The  fear  in  his  wife's  eyes.    He  gazed  away, 
As  I  could  see,  in  helpless  thought  of  her, 
And  said  to  me :    "Well,  then,  it  was  like  this. 
Some  tales  will  have  a  deal  of  going  back 
In  them  before  they  are  begun.    But  this  one 
Begins  in  the  beginning — when  he  came. 
I  was  a  boy  at  school,  sixteen  years  old, 
And  on  my  way,  in  all  appearances, 
To  mark  an  even-tempered  average 
Among  the  major  mediocrities 
Who  serve  and  earn  with  no  especial  noise 
Or  vast  reward.     I  saw  myself,  even  then, 
A  light  for  no  high  shining;  and  I  feared 

547 


COLLECTED  POSMS 

No  boy  or  man — having,  in  truth,  no  cause. 
I  was  enough  a  leader  to  be  free, 
And  not  enough  a  hero  to  be  jealous. 
Having  eyes  and  ears,  I  knew  that  I  was  envied, 
And  as  a  proper  sort  of  compensation 
Had  envy  of  my  own  for  two  or  three — 
But  never  felt,  and  surely  never  gave, 
The  wound  of  any  more  malevolence 
Than  decent  youth,  defeated  for  a  day, 
May  take  to  bed  with  him  and  kill  with  sleep. 
So,  and  so  far,  my  days  were  going  well, 
And  would  have  gone  so,  but  for  the  black  tiger 
That  many  of  us  fancy  is  in  waiting, 
But  waits  for  most  of  us  in  fancy  only. 
For  me  there  was  no  fancy  in  his  coming, 
Though  God  .knows  I  had  never  summoned  him, 
Or  thought  of  him.    To  this  day  I'm  adrift 
And  in  the  dark,  out  of  all  reckoning, 
To  find  a  reason  why  he  ever  was, 
Or  what  was  ailing  Fate  when  he  was  born 
On  this  alleged  God-ordered  earth  of  ours. 
Now  and  again  there  comes  one  of  his  kind — 
By  chance,  we  say.    I  leave  all  that  to  you. 
Whether  it  was  an  evil  chance  alone, 
Or  some  invidious  juggling  of  the  stars, 
Or  some  accrued  arrears  of  ancestors 
Who  throve  on  debts  that  I  was  here  to  pay, 
Or  sins  within  me  that  I  knew  not  of, 
Or  just  a  foretaste  of  what  waits  in  hell 
For  those  of  us  who  cannot  love  a  worm, — 
Whatever  it  was,  or  whence  or  why  it  was, 
One  day  there  came  a  stranger  to  the  school. 
And  having  had  one  mordacious  glimpse  of  him 
That  filled  my  eyes  and  was  to  fill  my  life, 
I  have  known  Peace  only  as  one  more  word 
548 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

Among  the  many  others  we  say  over 

That  have  an  airy  credit  of  no  meaning. 

One  of  these  days,  if  I  were  seeing  many 

To  live,  I  might  erect  a  cenotaph 

To  Job's  wife.     I  assume  that  you  remember; 

If  you  forget,  she's  extant  in  your  Bible." 

Now  this  was  not  the  language  of  a  man 

Whom  I  had  known  as  Avon,  and  I  winced 

Hearing  it — though  I  knew  that  in  my  heart 

There  was  no  visitation  of  surprise. 

Unwelcome  as  it  was,  and  off  the  key 

Calamitously,  it  overlived  a  silence 

That  was  itself  a  story  and  affirmed 

A  savage  emphasis  of  honesty 

That  I  would  only  gladly  have  attuned 

If  possible,  to  vinous  innovation. 

But  his  indifferent  wassailing  was  always 

Too  far  within  the  measure  of  excess 

For  that ;  and  then  there  were  those  eyes  of  his. 

Avon  indeed  had  kept  his  word  with  me, 

And  there  was  not  much  yet  to  make  me  happy. 

"So  there  we  were,"  he  said,  "we  two  together, 
Breathing  one  air.     And  how  shall  I  go  on 
To  say  by  what  machinery  the  slow  net 
Of  my  fantastic  and  increasing  hate 
Was  ever  woven  as  it  was  around  us? 
I  cannot  answer;  and  you  need  not  ask 
What  undulating  reptile  he  was  like, 
For  such  a  worm  as  I  discerned  in  him 
Was  never  yet  on  earth  or  in  the  ocean, 
Or  anywhere  else  than  in  my  sense  of  him. 
Had  all  I  made  of  him  been  tangible, 
The  Lord  must  have  invented  long  ago 
549 


Some  private  and  unspeakable  new  monster 
Equipped  for  such  a  thing's  extermination; 
Whereon  the  monster,  seeing  no  other  monster 
Worth  biting,  would  have  died  with  his  work  done. 
There's  a  humiliation  in  it  now, 
As  there  was  then,  and  worse  than  there  was  then ; 
For  then  there  was  the  boy  to  shoulder  it 
Without  the  sickening  weight  of  added  years 
Galling  him  to  the  grave.    Beware  of  hate 
That  has  no  other  boundary  than  the  grave 
Made  for  it,  or  for  ourselves.    Beware,  I  say; 
And  I'm  a  sorry  one,  I  fear,  to  say  it, 
Though  for  the  moment  we  may  let  that  go 
And  while  I'm  interrupting  my  own  story 
I'll  ask  of  you  the  favor  of  a  look 
Into  the  street.    I  like  it  when  it's  empty. 
There's  only  one  man  walking  ?    Let  him  walk. 
I  wish  to  God  that  all  men  might  walk  always, 
And  so,  being  busy,  love  one  another  more." 

"Avon,"  I  said,  now  in  my  chair  again, 
"Although  I  may  not  be  here  to  be  happy, 
If  you  are  careless,  I  may  have  to  laugh. 
I  have  disliked  a  few  men  in  my  life, 
But  never  to  the  scope  of  wishing  them 
To  this  particular  pedestrian  hell 
Of  your  affection.    I  should  not  like  that. 
Forgive  me,  for  this  time  it  was  your  fault." 

He  drummed  with  all  his  fingers  on  his  chair, 
And,  after  a  made  smile  of  acquiescence, 
Took  up  again  the  theme  of  his  aversion, 
Which  now  had  flown  along  with  him  alone 
For  twenty  years,  like  lo's  evil  insect, 
To  sting  him  when  it  would.    The  decencies 
550 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

Forbade  that  I  should  look  at  him  for  ever, 

Yet  many  a  time  I  found  myself  ashamed 

Of  a  long  staring  at  him,  and  as  often 

Essayed  the  dictionary  on  the  table, 

Wondering  if  in  its  interior 

There  was  an  uncompanionable  word 

To  say  just  what  was  creeping  in  my  hair, 

At  which  my  scalp  would  shrink, — at  which,  again, 

I  would  arouse  myself  with  a  vain  scorn, 

Eemembering  that  all  this  was  in  New  York — 

As  if  that  were  somehow  the  banishing 

For  ever  of  all  unseemly  presences — 

And  listen  to  the  story  of  my  friend, 

Who,  as  I  feared,  was  not  for  me  to  save, 

And,  as  I  knew,  knew  also  that  I  feared  it. 

'^Humiliation,"  he  began  again, 
"May  be  or  not  the  best  of  all  bad  names 
I  might  employ;  and  if  you  scent  remorse, 
There  may  be  growing  such  a  flower  as  that 
In  the  unsightly  garden  where  I  planted, 
Not  knowing  the  seed  or  what  was  coming  of  it. 
I've  done  much  wondering  if  I  planted  it; 
But  our  poor  wonder,  when  it  comes  too  late, 
Fights  with  a  lath,  and  one  that  solid  fact 
Breaks  while  it  yawns  and  looks  another  way 
For  a  less  negligible  adversary. 
Away  with  wonder,  then ;  though  I'm  at  odds 
With  conscience,  even  tonight,  for  good  assurance 
That  it  was  I,  or  chance  and  I  together, 
Did  all  that  sowing.     If  I  seem  to  you 
To  be  a  little  bitten  by  the  question, 
Without  a  miracle  it  might  be  true; 
The  miracle  is  to  me  that  I'm  not  eaten 
Long  since  to  death  of  it,  and  that  you  sit 
551 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

With  nothing  more  agreeable  than  a  ghost. 

If  you  had  thought  a  while  of  that,  you  might, 

Unhappily,  not  have  come;  and  your  not  coming 

Would  have  been  desolation — not  for  you, 

God  save  the  mark! — for  I  would  have  you  here. 

I  shall  not  be  alone  with  you  to  listen; 

And  I  should  be  far  less  alone  tonight 

With  you  away,  make  what  you  will  of  that. 

"I  said  that  we  were  going  back  to  school, 
And  we  may  say  that  we  are  there — with  him. 
This  fellow  had  no  friend,  and,  as  for  that, 
No  sign  of  an  apparent  need  of  one, 
Save  always  and  alone — myself.    He  fixed 
His  heart  and  eyes  on  me,  insufferably, — 
And  in  a  sort  of  Nemesis-like  way, 
Invincibly.    Others  who  might  have  given 
A  welcome  even  to  him,  or  I'll  suppose  so — 
Adorning  an  unfortified  assumption 
With  gold  that  might  come  off  with  afterthought — 
Got  never,  if  anything,  more  out  of  him 
Than  a  word  flung  like  refuse  in  their  faces, 
And  rarely  that.    For  God  knows  what  good  .reason, 
He  lavished  his  whole  altered  arrogance 
On  me ;  and  with  an  overweening  skill, 
Which  had  sometimes  almost  a  cringing  in  it, 
Found  a  few  flaws  in  my  tight  mail  of  hate 
And  slowly  pricked  a  poison  into  me 
In  which  at  first  I  failed  at  recognizing 
An  unfamiliar  subtle  sort  of  pity. 
But  so  it  was,  and  I  believe  he  knew  it; 
Though  even  to  dream  it  would  have  been  absurd — 
Until  I  knew  it,  and  there  was  no  need 
Of  dreaming.    For  the  fellow's  indolence, 
And  his  malignant  oily  swarthiness 
552 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

Housing  a  reptile  blood  that  I  could  see 
Beneath  it,  like  hereditary  venom 
Out  of  old  human  swamps,  hardly  revealed 
Itself  the  proper  spawning-ground  of  pity. 
But  so  it  was.    Pity,  or  something  like  it, 
Was  in  the  poison  of  his  proximity; 
For  nothing  else  that  I  have  any  name  for 
Could  have  invaded  and  so  mastered  me 
With  a  slow  tolerance  that  eventually 
Assumed  a  blind  ascendency  of  custom 
That  saw  not  even  itself.    When  I  came  in, 
Often  I'd  find  him  strewn  along  my  couch 
Like  an  amorphous  lizard  with  its  clothes  on, 
Reading  a  book  and  waiting  for  its  dinner. 
His  clothes  were  always  odiously  in  order, 
Yet  I  should  not  have  thought  of  him  as  clean — 
Not  even  if  he  had  washed  himself  to  death 
Proving  it.    There  was  nothing  right  about  him. 
Then  he  would  search,  never  quite  satisfied, 
Though  always  in  a  measure  confident, 
My  eyes  to  find  a  welcome  waiting  in  them, 
Unwilling,  as  I  see  him  now,  to  know 
That  it  would  never  be  there.    Looking  back, 
I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  not  have  died 
For  me,  if  I  were  drowning  or  on  fire, 
Or  that  I  would  not  rather  have  let  myself 
Die  twice  than  owe  the  debt  of  my  survival 
To  him,  though  he  had  lost  not  even  his  clothes. 
No,  there  was  nothing  right  about  that  fellow; 
And  after  twenty  years  to  think  of  him 
I  should  be  quite  as  helpless  now  to  serve  him 
As  I  was  then.    I  mean — without  my  story. 
Be  patient,  and  you'll  see  just  what  I  mean — 
Which  is  to  say,  you  won't.    But  you  can  listen, 
And  that's  itself  a  large  accomplishment 
553 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Uncrowned;  and  may  be,  at  a  time  like  this, 

A  mighty  charity.    It  was  in  January 

This  evil  genius  came  into  our  school, 

And  it  was  June  when  he  went  out  of  it — 

If  I  may  say  that  he  was  wholly  out 

Of  any  place  that  I  was  in  thereafter. 

But  he  was  not  yet  gone.    When  we  are  told 

By  Fate  to  bear  what  we  may  never  bear, 

Fate  waits  a  little  while  to  see  what  happens; 

And  this  time  it  was  only  for  the  season 

Between  the  swift  midwinter  holidays 

And  the  long  progress  into  weeks  and  months 

Of  all  the  days  that  followed — with  him  there 

To  make  them  longer.    I  would  have  given  an  eye, 

Before  the  summer  came,  to  know  for  certain 

That  I  should  never  be  condemned  again 

To  see  him  with  the  other;  and  all  the  while 

There  was  a  battle  going  on  within  me 

Of  hate  that  fought  remorse — if  you  must  have  it — 

Never  to  win,  .  .  .  never  to  win  but  once, 

And  having  won,  to  lose  disastrously, 

And  as  it  was  to  prove,  interminably — 

Or  till  an  end  of  living  may  annul, 

If  so  it  be,  the  nameless  obligation 

That  I  have  not  the  Christian  revenue 

In  me  to  pay.    A  man  who  has  no  gold, 

Or  an  equivalent,  shall  pay  no  gold 

Until  by  chance  or  labor  or  contrivance 

He  makes  it  his  to  pay ;  and  he  that  has 

No  kindlier  commodity  than  hate, 

Glossed  with  a  pity  that  belies  itself 

In  its  negation  and  lacks  alchemy 

To  fuse  itself  to — love,  would  you  have  me  say? 

I  don't  believe  it.    No,  there  is  no  such  word. 

If  I  say  tolerance,  there's  no  more  to  say. 

554 


And  he  who  sickens  even  in  saying  that — 
What  coin  of  God  has  he  to  pay  the  toll 
To  peace  on  earth?    Good  will  to  men — oh,  yes! 
That's  easy;  and  it  means  no  more  than  sap, 
Until  we  boil  the  water  out  of  it 
Over  the  fire  of  sacrifice.    I'll  do  it; 
And  in  a  measurable  way  I've  done  it — 
But  not  for  him.    What  are  you  smiling  at? 
Well,  so  it  went  until  a  day  in  June. 
We  were  together  under  an  old  elm, 
Which  now,  I  hope,  is  gone — though  it's  a  crime 
In  me  that  I  should  have  to  wish  the  death 
Of  such  a  tree  as  that.    There  were  no  trees 
Like  those  that  grew  at  school — until  he  came. 
We  stood  together  under  it  that  day, 
When  he,  by  some  ungovernable  chance, 
All  foreign  to  the  former  crafty  care 
That  he  had  used  never  to  cross  my  favor, 
Told  of  a  lie  that  stained  a  friend  of  mine 
With  a  false  blot  that  a  few  days  washed  off. 
A  trifle  now,  but  a  boy's  honor  then — 
Which  then  was  everything.    There  were  some  words 
Between  us,  but  I  don't  remember  them. 
All  I  remember  is  a  bursting  flood 
Of  half  a  year's  accumulated  hate, 
And  his  incredulous  eyes  before  I  struck  him. 
He  had  gone  once  too  far;  and  when  he  knew  it, 
He  knew  it  was  all  over;  and  I  struck  him. 
Pound  for  pound,  he  was  the  better  brute; 
But  bulking  in  the  way  then  of  my  fist 
And  all  there  was  alive  in  me  to  drive  it, 
Three  of  him  misbegotten  into  one 
Would  have  gone  down  like  him — and  being  larger, 
Might  have  bled  more,  if  that  were  necessary. 
He  came  up  soon;  and  if  I  live  for  ever, 
555 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  vengeance  in  his  eyes,  and  a  weird  gleam 
Of  desolation — if  I  make  you  see  it — 
Will  be  before  me  as  it  is  tonight. 
I  shall  not  ever  know  how  long  it  was 
I  waited  his  attack  that  never  came ; 
It  might  have  been  an  instant  or  an  hour 
That  I  stood  ready  there,  watching  his  eyes, 
And  the  tears  running  out  of  them.     They  made 
Me  sick,  those  tears;  for  I  knew,  miserably, 
They  were  not  there  for  any  pain  he  felt. 
I  do  not  think  he  felt  the  pain  at  all. 
He  felt  the  blow.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  whole  thing  was  bad- 
So  bad  that  even  the  bleaching  suns  and  rains 
Of  years  that  wash  away  to  faded  lines, 
Or  blot  out  wholly,  the  sharp  wrongs  and  ills 
Of  youth,  have  had  no  cleansing  agent  in  them 
To  dim  the  picture.    I  still  see  him  going 
Away  from  where  I  stood ;  and  I  shall  see  him 
Longer,  sometime,  than  I  shall  see  the  face 
Of  whosoever  watches  by  the  bed 
On  which  I  die — given  I  die  that  way. 
I  doubt  if  he  could  reason  his  advantage 
In  living  any  longer  after  that 
Among  the  rest  of  us.    The  lad  he  slandered, 
Or  gave  a  negative  immunity 
No  better  than  a  stone  he  might  have  thrown 
Behind  him  at  his  head,  was  of  the  few 
I  might  have  envied;  and  for  that  being  known, 
My  fury  became  sudden  history, 
And  I  a  sudden  hero.     But  the  crown 
I  wore  was  hot;  and  I  would  happily 
Have  hurled  it,  if  I  could,  so  far  away 
That  over  my  last  hissing  glimpse  of  it 
There  might  have  closed  an  ocean.    He  went  home 
The  next  day,  and  the  same  unhappy  chance 
556 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

That  first  had  fettered  me  and  my  aversion 
To  his  unprofitable  need  of  me 
Brought  us  abruptly  face  to  face  again 
Beside  the  carriage  that  had  come  for  him. 
We  met,  and  for  a  moment  we  were  still — 
Together.    But  I  was  reading  in  his  eyes 
More  than  I  read  at  college  or  at  law 
In  years  that  followed.     There  was  blankly  nothing 
For  me  to  say,  if  not  that  I  was  sorry ; 
And  that  was  more  than  hate  would  let  me  say — 
Whatever  the  truth  might  be.    At  last  he  spoke, 
And  I  could  see  the  vengeance  in  his  eyes, 
And  a  cold  sorrow — which,  if  I  had  seen 
Much  more  of  it,  might  yet  have  mastered  me. 
But  I  would  see  no  more  of  it.     'Well,  then,' 
He  said,  'have  you  thought  yet  of  anything 
Worth  saying  ?    If  so,  there's  time.    If  you  are  silent, 
I  shall  know  where  you  are  until  you  die.' 
I  can  still  hear  him  saying  those  words  to  me 
Again,  without  a  loss  or  an  addition; 
I  know,  for  I  have  heard  them  ever  since. 
And  there  was  in  me  not  an  answer  for  them 
Save  a  new  roiling  silence.     Once  again 
I  met  his  look,  and  on  his  face  I  saw 
There  was  a  twisting  in  the  swarthiness 
That  I  had  often  sworn  to  be  the  cast 
Of  his  ophidian  mind.    He  had  no  soul. 
There  was  to  be  no  more  of  him — not  then. 
The  carriage  rolled  away  with  him  inside, 
Leaving  the  two  of  us  alive  together 
In  the  same  hemisphere  to  hate  each  other. 
I  don't  know  now  whether  he's  here  alive, 
Or  whether  he's  here  dead.     But  that,  of  course, 
As  you  would  say,  is  only  a  tired  man's  fancy. 
You  know  that  I  have  driven  the  wheels  too  fast 
557 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Of  late,  and  all  for  gold  I  do  not  need. 

When  are  we  mortals  to  be  sensible, 

Paying  no  more  for  life  than  life  is  worth  ? 

Better  for  us,  no  doubt,  we  do  not  know 

How  much  we  pay  or  what  it  is  we  buy." 

He  waited,  gazing  at  me  as  if  asking 

The  worth  of  what  the  universe  had  for  sale 

For  one  confessed  remorse.     Avon,  I  knew, 

Had  driven  the  wheels  too  fast,  and  not  for  gold. 

'If  you  had  given  him  then  your  hand,"  I  said, 

"And  spoken,  though  it  strangled  you,  the  truth, 

I  should  not  have  the  melancholy  honor 

Of  sitting  here  alone  with  you  this  evening. 

If  only  you  had  shaken  hands  with  him, 

And  said  the  truth,  he  would  have  gone  his  way, 

And  you  your  way.    He  might  have  wished  you  dead, 

But  he  would  not  have  made  you  miserable. 

At  least,"  I  added,  indefensibly, 

"That's  what  I  hope  is  true." 

He  pitied  me, 

But  had  the  magnanimity  not  to  say  so. 
"If  only  we  had  shaken  hands,"  he  said, 
"And  I  had  said  the  truth,  we  might  have  been 
In  half  a  moment  rolling  on  the  gravel. 
If  I  had  said  the  truth,  I  should  have  said 
That  never  at  any  moment  on  the  clock 
Above  us  in  the  tower  since  his  arrival 
Had  I  been  in  a  more  proficient  mood 
To  throttle  him.    If  you  had  seen  his  eyes 
As  I  did,  and  if  you  had  seen  his  face 
At  work  as  I  did,  you  might  understand. 
I  was  ashamed  of  it,  as  I  am  now, 
But  that's  the  prelude  to  another  theme; 
558 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

For  now  I'm  saying  only  what  had  happened 
If  I  had  taken  his  hand  and  said  the  truth. 
The  wise  have  cautioned  us  that  where  there's  hate 
There's  also  fear.     The  wise  are  right  sometimes. 
There  may  be  now,  but  there  was  no  fear  then. 
There  was  just  hatred,  hauled  up  out  of  hell 
For  me  to  writhe  in;  and  I  writhed  in  it." 

I  saw  that  he  was  writhing  in  it  still; 
But  having  a  magnanimity  myself, 
I  waited.    There  was  nothing  else  to  do 
But  wait,  and  to  remember  that  his  tale, 
Though  well  along,  as  I  divined  it  was, 
Yet  hovered  among  shadows  and  regrets 
Of  twenty  years  ago.     When  he  began 
Again  to  speak,  I  felt  them  coming  nearer. 

"Whenever  your  poet  or  your  philosopher 
Has  nothing  richer  for  us,"  he  resumed, 
"He  burrows  among  remnants,  like  a  mouse 
In  a  waste-basket,  and  with  much  dry  noise 
Comes  up  again,  having  found  Time  at  the  bottom 
And  filled  himself  with  its  futility. 
'Time  is  at  once,'  he  says,  to  startle  us, 
'A  poison  for  us,  if  we  make  it  so, 
And,  if  we  make  it  so,  an  antidote 
For  the  same  poison  that  afflicted  us.' 
I'm  witness  to  the  poison,  but  the  cure 
Of  my  complaint  is  not,  for  me,  in  Time. 
There  may  be  doctors  in  eternity 
To  deal  with  it,  but  they  are  not  here  now. 
There's  no  specific  for  my  three  diseases 
That  I  could  swallow,  even  if  I  should  find  it, 
And  I  shall  never  find  it  here  on  earth," 
559 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Mightn't  it  be  as  well,  my  friend,"  I  said, 
"For  you  to  contemplate  the  uncompleted 
With  not  such  an  infernal  certainty?" 


"And  mightn't  it  be  as  well  for  you,  my  friend," 
Said  Avon,  "to  be  quiet  while  I  go  on? 
When  I  am  done,  then  you  may  talk  all  night — 
Like  a  physician  who  can  do  no  good, 
But  knows  how  soon  another  would  have  his  fee 
Were  he  to  tell  the  truth.    Your  fee  for  this 
Is  in  my  gratitude  and  my  affection; 
And  I'm  not  eager  to  be  calling  in 
Another  to  take  yours  away  from  you, 
Whatever  it's  worth.    I  like  to  think  I  know. 
Well  then,  again.    The  carriage  rolled  away 
With  him  inside ;  and  so  it  might  have  gone 
For  ten  years  rolling  on,  with  him  still  in  it, 
For  all  it  was  I  saw  of  him.     Sometimes 
I  heard  of  him,  but  only  as  one  hears 
Of  leprosy  in  Boston  or  New  York 
And  wishes  it  were  somewhere  else.    He  faded 
Out  of  my  scene — yet  never  quite  out  of  it : 
'I  shall  know  where  you  are  until  you  die,' 
Were  his  last  words ;  and  they  are  the  same  words 
That  I  received  thereafter  once  a  year, 
Infallibly  on  my  birthday,  with  no  name; 
Only  a  card,  and  the  words  printed  on  it. 
No,  I  was  never  rid  of  him — not  quite; 
Although  on  shipboard,  on  my  way  from  here 
To  Hamburg,  I  believe  that  I  forgot  him. 
But  once  ashore,  I  should  have  been  half  ready 
To  meet  him  there,  risen  up  out  of  the  ground, 
With  hoofs  and  horns  and  tail  and  everything. 
Believe  me,  there  was  nothing  right  about  him, 
560 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

Though  it  was  not  in  Hamburg  that  I  found  him. 
Later,  in  Home,  it  was  we  found  each  other, 
For  the  first  time  since  we  had  been  at  school. 
There  was  the  same  slow  vengeance  in  his  eyes 
When  he  saw  mine,  and  there  was  a  vicious  twist 
On  his  amphibious  face  that  might  have  been 
On  anything  else  a  smile — rather  like  one 
We  look  for  on  the  stage  than  in  the  street. 
I  must  have  been  a  yard  away  from  him 
Yet  as  we  passed  I  felt  the  touch  of  him 
Like  that  of  something  soft  in  a  dark  room. 
There's  hardly  need  of  saying  that  we  said  nothing, 
Or  that  we  gave  each  other  an  occasion 
For  more  than  our  eyes  uttered.    He  was  gone 
Before  I  knew  it,  like  a  solid  phantom ; 
And  his  reality  was  for  me  some  time 
In  its  achievement — given  that  one's  to  be 
Convinced  that  such  an  incubus  at  large 
Was  ever  quite  real.    The  season  was  upon  us 
When  there  are  fitter  regions  in  the  world — 
Though  God  knows  he  would  have  been  safe  enough- 
Than  Rome  for  strayed  Americans  to  live  in, 
And  when  the  whips  of  their  itineraries 
Hurry  them  north  again.     I  took  my  time, 
Since  I  was  paying  for  it,  and  leisurely 
Went  where  I  would — though  never  again  to  move 
Without  him  at  my  elbow  or  behind  me. 
My  shadow  of  him,  wherever  I  found  myself, 
Might  horribly  as  well  have  been  the  man — 
Although  I  should  have  been  afraid  of  him 
No  more  than  of  a  large  worm  in  a  salad. 
I  should  omit  the  salad,  certainly, 
And  wish  the  worm  elsewhere.    And  so  he  was, 
In  fact;  yet  as  I  go  on  to  grow  older, 
I  question  if  there's  anywhere  a  fact 
561 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  isn't  the  malevolent  existence 
Of  one  man  who  is  dead,  or  is  not  dead, 
Or  what  the  devil  it  is  that  he  may  be. 
There  must  be,  I  suppose,  a  fact  somewhere, 
But  I  don't  know  it.    I  can  only  tell  you 
That  later,  when  to  all  appearances 
I  stood  outside  a  music-hall  in  London, 
I  felt  him  and  then  saw  that  he  was  there. 
Yes,  he  was  there,  and  had  with  him  a  woman 
Who  looked  as  if  she  didn't  know.    I'm  sorry 
To  this  day  for  that  woman — who,  no  doubt, 
Is  doing  well.    Yes,  there  he  was  again; 
There  were  his  eyes  and  the  same  vengeance  in  them 
That  I  had  seen  in  Rome  and  twice  before — 
Not  mentioning  all  the  time,  or  most  of  it, 
Between  the  day  I  struck  him  and  that  evening. 
That  was  the  worst  show  that  I  ever  saw, 
But  you  had  better  see  it  for  yourself 
Before  you  say  so  too.    I  went  away, 
Though  not  for  any  fear  that  I  could  feel 
Of  him  or  of  his  worst  manipulations, 
But  only  to  be  out  of  the  same  air 
That  made  him  stay  alive  in  the  same  world 
With  all  the  gentlemen  that  were  in  irons 
Eor  uncommendable  extravagances 
That  I  should  reckon  slight  compared  with  his 
Offence  of  being.     Distance  would  have  made  him 
A  moving  fly-speck  on  the  map  of  life, — 
But  he  would  not  be  distant,  though  his  flesh     ,  \ 
And  bone  might  have  been  climbing  Fujiyama 
Or  Chimborazo — with  me  there  in  London, 
Or  sitting  here.    My  doom  it  was  to  see  him, 
Be  where  I  might.    That  was  ten  years  ago; 
And  having  waited  season  after  season 
His  always  imminent  evil  recrudescence, 
562 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

And  all  for  nothing,  I  was  waiting  still, 

When  the  Titanic  touched  a  piece  of  ice 

And  we  were  for  a  moment  where  we  are, 

With  nature  laughing  at  us.     When  the  noise 

Had  spent  itself  to  names,  his  was  among  them; 

And  I  will  not  insult  you  or  myself 

With  a  vain  perjury.     I  was  far  from  cold. 

It  seemed  as  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 

I  knew  the  blessedness  of  being  warm; 

And  I  remember  that  I  had  a  drink, 

Having  assuredly  no  need  of  it. 

Pity  a  fool  for  his  credulity, 

If  so  you  must.    But  when  I  found  his  name 

Among  the  dead,  I  trusted  once  the  news; 

And  after  that  there  were  no  messages 

In  ambush  waiting  for  me  on  my  birthday. 

There  was  no  vestige  yet  of  any  fear, 

You  understand — if  that's  why  you  are  smiling." 


I  said  that  I  had  not  so  much  as  whispered 
The  name  aloud  of  any  fear  soever, 
And  that  I  smiled  at  his  unwonted  plunge 
Into  the  perilous  pool  of  Dionysus. 
"Well,  if  you  are  so  easily  diverted 
As  that,"  he  said,  drumming  his  chair  again, 
"You  will  be  pleased,  I  think,  with  what  is  coming; 
And  though  there  be  divisions  and  departures, 
Imminent  from  now  on,  for  your  diversion 
I'll  do  the  best  I  can.    More  to  the  point, 
I  know  a  man  who  if  his  friends  were  like  him 
Would  live  in  the  woods  all  summer  and  all  winter, 
Leaving  the  town  and  its  iniquities 
To  die  of  their  own  dust.    But  having  his  wits, 
Henceforth  he  mav  conceivably  avoid 
563 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

The  adventure  unattended.    Last  October 
He  took  me  with  him  into  the  Maine  woods, 
Where,  by  the  shore  of  a  primeval  lake, 
With  woods  all  round  it,  and  a  voyage  away 
From  anything  wearing  clothes,  he  had  reared  somehow 
A  lodge,  or  camp,  with  a  stone  chimney  in  it, 
And  a  wide  fireplace  to  make  men  forget 
Their  sins  who  sat  before  it  in  the  evening, 
Hearing  the  wind  outside  among  the  trees 
And  the  black  water  washing  on  the  shore. 
I  never  knew  the  meaning  of  October 
Until  I  went  with  Asher  to  that  place, 
Which  I  shall  not  investigate  again 
Till  I  be  taken  there  by  other  forces 
Than  are  innate  in  my  economy. 
'You  may  not  like  it/  Asher  said,  'but  Asher 
Knows  what  is  good.     So  put  your  faith  in  Asher, 
And  come  along  with  him.'     He's  an  odd  bird, 
Yet  I  could  wish  for  the  world's  decency 
There  might  be  more  of  him.    And  so  it  was 
I  found  myself,  at  first  incredulous, 
Down  there  with  Asher  in  the  wilderness, 
Alive  at  last  with  a  new  liberty 
And  with  no  sore  to  fester.    He  perceived 
In  me  an  altered  favor  of  God's  works, 
And  promptly  took  upon  himself  the  credit, 
Which,  in  a  fashion,  was  as  accurate 
As  one's  interpretation  of  another 
Is  like  to  be.     So  for  a  frosty  fortnight 
We  had  the  sunlight  with  us  on  the  lake, 
And  the  moon  with  us  when  the  sun  was  down. 
'God  gave  his  adjutants  a  holiday/ 
Asher  assured  me,  'when  He  made  this  place'; 
And  I  agreed  with  him  that  it  was  heaven, — 
Till  it  was  hell  for  me  for  then  and  after. 
564 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

"There  was  a  village  miles  away  from,  us 
Where  now  and  then  we  paddled  for  the  mail 
And  incidental  small  commodities 
That  perfect  exile  might  require,  and  stayed 
The  night  after  the  voyage  with  an  antique 
Survival  of  a  broader  world  than  ours 
Whom  Asher  called  The  Admiral.     This  time, 
A  little  out  of  sorts  and  out  of  tune 
With  paddling,  I  let  Asher  go  alone, 
Sure  that  his  heart  was  happy.     Then  it  was 
That  hell  came.     I  sat  gazing  over  there 
Across  the  water,  watching  the  sun's  last  fire 
Above  those  gloomy  and  indifferent  trees 
That  might  have  been  a  wall  around  the  world, 
When  suddenly,  like  faces  over  the  lake, 
Out  of  the  silence  of  that  other  shore 
I  was  aware  of  hidden  presences 

That  soon,  no  matter  how  many  of  them  there  were, 
Would  all  be  one.    I  could  not  look  behind  me, 
Where  I  could  hear  that  one  of  them  was  breathing, 
For,  if  I  did,  those  others  over  there 
Might  all  see  that  at  last  I  was  afraid; 
And  I  might  hear  them  without  seeing  them, 
Seeing  that  other  one.     You  were  not  there; 
And  it  is  well  for  you  that  you  don't  know 
What  they  are  like  when  they  should  not  be  there. 
And  there  were  chilly  doubts  of  whether  or  not 
I  should  be  seeing  the  rest  that  I  should  see 
With  eyes,  or  otherwise.     I  could  not  be  sure; 
And  as  for  going  over  to  find  out, 
All  I  may  tell  you  now  is  that  my  fear 
Was  not  the  fear  of  dying,  though  I  knew  soon 
That  all  the  gold  in  all  the  sunken  ships 
That  have  gone  down  since  Tyre  would  not  have  paid 
For  me  the  ferriage  of  myself  alone 
5G5 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

To  that  infernal  shore.    I  was  in  hell, 
Remember;  and  if  you  have  never  been  there 
You  may  as  well  not  say  how  easy  it  is 
To  find  the  best  way  out.    There  may  not  be  one. 
Well,  I  was  there;  and  I  was  there  alone — 
Alone  for  the  first  time  since  I  was  born; 
And  I  was  not  alone.    That's  what  it  is 
To  be  in  hell.    I  hope  you  will  not  go  there. 
All  through  that  slow,  long,  desolating  twilight 
Of  incoherent  certainties,  I  waited; 
Never  alone — never  to  be  alone; 
And  while  the  night  grew  down  upon  me  there, 
I  thought  of  old  Prometheus  in  the  story 
That  I  had  read  at  school,  and  saw  mankind 
All  huddled  into  clusters  in  the  dark, 
Calling  to  God  for  light.    There  was  a  light 
Coming  for  them,  but  there  was  none  for  me 
Until  a  shapeless  remnant  of  a  moon 
Rose  after  midnight  over  the  black  trees 
Behind  me.    I  should  hardly  have  confessed 
The  heritage  'then  of  my  identity 
To  my  own  shadow;  for  I  was  powerless  there, 
As  I  am  here.     Say  what  you  like  to  say 
To  silence,  but  say  none  of  it  to  me 
Tonight.    To  say  it  now  would  do  no  good, 
And  you  are  here  to  listen.     Beware  of  hate, 
And  listen.    Beware  of  hate,  remorse,  and  fear, 
And  listen.    You  are  staring  at  the  damned, 
But  yet  you  are  no  more  the  one  than  he 
To  say  that  it  was  he  alone  who  planted 
The  flower  of  death  now  growing  in  his  garden. 
Was  it  enough,  I  wonder,  that  I  struck  him  ? 
I  shall  say  nothing.     I  shall  have  to  wait 
Until  I  see  what's  coming,  if  it  comes, 
When  I'm  a  delver  in  another  garden — 

566 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

If  such  an  one  there  be.    If  there  be  none, 
All's  well — and  over.    Rather  a  vain  expense, 
One  might  affirm — yet  there  is  nothing  lost. 
Science  be  praised  that  there  is  nothing  lost." 

I'm  glad  the  venom  that  was  on  his  tongue 
May  not  go  down  on  paper ;  and  I'm  glad 
No  friend  of  mine  alive,  far  as  I  know, 
Has  a  tale  waiting  for  me  with  an  end 
Like  Avon's.     There  was  here  an  interruption, 
Though  not  a  long  one — only  while  we  heard, 
As  we  had  heard  before,  the  ghost  of  steps 
Faintly  outside.     We  knew  that  she  was  there 
Again;  and  though  it  was  a  kindly  folly, 
I  wished  that  Avon's  wife  would  go  to  sleep. 

"I  was  afraid,  this  time,  but  not  of  man — 
Or  man  as  you  may  figure  him,"  he  said. 
"It  was  not  anything  my  eyes  had  seen 
That  I  could  feel  around  me  in  the  night, 
There  by  that  lake.    If  I  had  been  alone, 
There  would  have  been  the  joy  of  being  free, 
Which  in  imagination  I  had  won 
With  unimaginable  expiation — 
But  I  was  not  alone.    If  you  had  seen  me, 
Waiting  there  for  the  dark  and  looking  off 
Over  the  gloom  of  that  relentless  water, 
Which  had  the  stillness  of  the  end  of  things 
That  evening  on  it,  I  might  well  have  made 
For  you  the  picture  of  the  last  man  left 
Where  God,  in  his  extinction  of  the  rest, 
Had  overlooked  him  and  forgotten  him. 
Yet  I  was  not  alone.     Interminably 
The  minutes  crawled  along  and  over  me, 
Slow,  cold,  intangible,  and  invisible, 

567 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

As  if  they  had  come  up  out  of  that  water. 

How  long  I  sat  there  I  shall  never  know, 

For  time  was  hidden  out  there  in  the  black  lake, 

Which  now  I  could  see  only  as  a  glimpse 

Of  black  light  by  the  shore.    There  were  no  stars 

To  mention,  and  the  moon  was  hours  away 

Behind  me.    There  was  nothing  but  myself, 

And  what  was  coming.    On  my  breast  I  felt 

The  touch  of  death,  and  I  should  have  died  then. 

I  ruined  good  Asher's  autumn  as  it  was, 

For  he  will  never  again  go  there  alone, 

If  ever  he  goes  at  all.    Nature  did  ill 

To  darken  such  a  faith  in  h^r  as  his, 

Though  he  will  have  it  that  I  had  the  worst 

Of  her  defection,  and  will  hear  no  more 

Apologies.    If  it  had  to  be  for  someone, 

I  think  it  well  for  me  it  was  for  Asher. 

I  dwell  on  him,  meaning  that  you  may  know  him 

Before  your  last  horn  blows.    He  has  a  name 

That's  like  a  tree,  and  therefore  like  himself — 

By  which  I  mean  you  find  him  where  you  leave  him. 

I  saw  him  and  The  Admiral  together 

While  I  was  in  the  dark,  but  they  were  far — 

Far  as  around  the  world  from  where  I  was; 

And  they  knew  nothing  of  what  I  saw  not 

While  I  knew  only  I  was  not  alone. 

I  made  a  fire  to  make  the  place  alive, 

And  locked  the  door.    But  even  the  fire  was  dead, 

And  all  the  life  there  was  was  in  the  shadow 

It  made  of  me.     My  shadow  wr.s  all  of  me; 

The  rest  had  had  its  day,  and  there  was  night 

Eemaining — on]y  night,  that's  made  for  shadows, 

Shadows  and  sleep  and  dreams,  or  dreams  without  it. 

The  fire  went  slowly  down,  and  now  the  moon, 

Or  that  late  wreck  of  it,  was  coming  up; 

568 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

And  though  it  was  a  martyr's  work  to  move, 
I  must  obey  my  shadow,  and  I  did. 
There  were  two  heds  built  low  against  the  wall, 
And  down  on  one  of  them,  with  all  my  clothes  on, 
Like  a  man  getting  into  his  own  grave, 
I  lay — and  waited.    As  the  firelight  sank, 
The  moonlight,  which  had  partly  been  consumed 
By  the  black  trees,  framed  on  the  other  wall 
A  glimmering  window  not  far  from  the  ground. 
The  coals  were  going,  and  only  a  few  sparks 
Were  there  to  tell  of  them;  and  as  they  died 
The  window  lightened,  and  I  saw  the  trees. 
They  moved  a  little,  but  I  could  not  move, 
More  than  to  turn  my  face  the  other  way; 
And  then,  if  you  must  have  it  so,  I  slept. 
We'll  call  it  so — if  sleep  is  your  best  name 
For  a  sort  of  conscious,  frozen  catalepsy 
Wherein  a  man  sees  all  there  is  around  him 
As  if  it  were  not  real,  and  he  were  not 
Alive.     You  may  call  it  anything  you  please 
That  made  me  powerless  to  move  hand  or  foot, 
Or  to  make  any  other  living  motion 
Than  after  a  long  horror,  without  hope, 
To  turn  my  face  again  the  other  way. 
Some  force  that  was  not  mine  opened  my  eyes, 
And,  as  I  knew  :t  must  be, — it  was  there." 

Avon  covered  his  eyes — whether  to  shut 
The  memory  and  the  sight  of  it  away, 
Or  to  be  sure  that  mine  were  for  the  moment 
Not  searching  his  with  pity,  is  now  no  matter. 
My  glance  at  him  was  brief,  turning  itself 
To  the  familiar  pattern  of  his  rug, 
Wherein  I  may  have  sought  a  consolation — 
As  one  may  gaze  in  sorrow  on  a  shell, 
569 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Or  a  small  apple.    So  it  had  come,  I  thought; 
And  heard,  no  longer  with  a  wonderment, 
The  faint  recurring  footsteps  of  his  wife, 
Who,  knowing  less  than  I  knew,  yet  knew  more. 
Now  I  could  read,  I  fancied,  through  the  fear 
That  latterly  was  living  in  her  eyes, 
To  the  sure  source  of  its  authority. 
But  he  went  on,  and  I  was  there  to  listen : 

"And  though  I  saw  it  only  as  a  blot 
Between  me  and  my  life,  it  was  enough 
To  make  me  know  that  he  was  watching  there — 
Waiting  for  me  to  move,  or  not  to  move, 
Before  he  moved.     Sick  as  I  was  with  hate 
Reborn,  and  chained  with  fear  that  was  more  than  fear, 
I  would  have  gambled  all  there  was  to  gain 
Or  lose  in  rising  there  from  where  I  lay 
And  going  out  after  it.     'Before  the  dawn/ 
I  reasoned,  'there  will  be  a  difference  here. 
Therefore  it  may  as  well  be  done  outside.' 
And  then  I  found  I  was  immovable, 
As  I  had  been  before;  and  a  dead  sweat 
Rolled  out  of  me  as  I  remembered  him 
When  I  had  seen  him  leaving  me  at  school. 
'I  shall  know  where  you  are  until  you  die,' 
Were  the  last  words  that  I  had  heard  him  say; 
And  there  he  was.    Now  I  could  see  his  face, 
And  all  the  sad,  malignant  desperation 
That  was  drawn  on  it  after  I  had  struck  him, 
And  on  my  memory  since  that  afternoon. 
But  all  there  was  left  now  for  me  to  do 
Was  to  lie  there  and  see  him  while  he  squeezed 
His  unclean  outlines  into  the  dim  room, 
And  half  erect  inside,  like  a  still  beast 
With  a  face  partly  man's,  came  slowly  on 
570 


AVON'S  HARVEST 

Along  the  floor  to  the  bed  where  I  lay, 

And  waited.     There  had  been  so  much  of  waiting, 

Through  all  those  evil  years  before  my  respite — 

Which  now  I  knew  and  recognized  at  last 

As  only  his  more  venomous  preparation 

For  the  vile  end  of  a  deceiving  peace — 

That  I  began  to  fancy  there  was  on  me 

The  stupor  that  explorers  have  alleged 

As  evidence  of  nature's  final  mercy 

When  tigers  have  them  down  upon  the  earth 

And  wild  hot  breath  is  heavy  on  their  faces. 

I  could  not  feel  his  breath,  but  I  could  hear  it; 

Though  fear  had  made  an  anvil  of  my  heart 

Where  demons,  for  the  joy  of  doing  it, 

Were  sledging  death  down  on  it.    And  I  saw 

His  eyes  now,  as  they  were,  for  the  first  time — 

Aflame  as  they  had  never  been  before 

With  all  their  gathered  vengeance  gleaming  in  them, 

And  always  that  unconscionable  sorrow 

That  would  not  die  behind  it.    Then  I  caught 

The  shadowy  glimpse  of  an  uplifted  arm, 

And  a  moon-flash  of  metal.    That  was  all.  .  .  . 

"When  I  believed  I  was  alive  again 
I  was  with  Asher  and  The  Admiral, 
Whom  Asher  had  brought  with  him  for  a  day 
With  nature.    They  had  found  me  when  they  came; 
And  there  was  not  much  left  of  me  to  find. 
I  had  not  moved  or  known  that  I  was  there 
Since  I  had  seen  his  eyes  and  felt  his  breath; 
And  it  was  not  for  some  uncertain  hours 
After  they  came  that  either  would  say  how  long 
That  might  have  been.    It  should  have  beep  much  longer. 
All  you  may  add  will  be  your  own  invention, 
For  I  have  told  you  all  there  is  to  tell. 
571 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Tomorrow  I  shall  have  another  birthday, 

And  with  it  there  may  come  another  message — 

Although  I  cannot  see  the  need  of  it, 

Or  much  more  need  of  drowning,  if  that's  all 

Men  drown  for — when  they  drown.     You  know  as  much 

As  I  know  about  that,  though  I've  a  right, 

If  not  a  reason,  to  be  on  my  guard; 

And  only  God  knows  what  good  that  will  do. 

Now  you  may  get  some  air.     Good  night! — and  thank 

you." 
He  smiled,  but  I  would  rather  he  had  not. 

I  wished  that  Avon's  wife  would  go  to  sleep, 
But  whether  she  found  sleep  that  night  or  not 
I  do  not  know.    I  was  awake  for  hours, 
Toiling  in  vain  to  let  myself  believe 
That  Avon's  apparition  was  a  dream, 
And  that  he  might  have  added,  for  romance, 
The  part  that  I  had  taken  home  with  me 
For  reasons  not  in  Avon's  dictionary. 
But  each  recurrent  memory  of  his  eyes, 
And  of  the  man  himself  that  I  had  known 
So  long  and  well,  made  soon  of  all  my  toil 
An  evanescent  and  a  vain  evasion ; 
And  it  was  half  as  in  expectancy 
That  I  obeyed  the  summons  of  his  wife 
A  little  before  dawn,  and  was  again 
With  Avon  in  the  room  where  I  had  left  him, 
But  not  with  the  same  Avon  I  had  left. 
The  doctor,  an  august  authority, 
With  eminence  abroad  as  well  as  here, 
Looked  hard  at  me  as  if  I  vrere  the  doctor 
And  he  the  friend.     "I  have  had  eyes  on  Avon 
For  more  than  half  a  year,"  he  said  to  me, 
"And  I  have  wondered  often  what  it  was 
572 


MR.  FLOOD'S  PARTY 

That  I  could  see  that  I  was  not  to  see. 

Though  he  was  in  the  chair  where  you  are  looking, 

I  told  his  wife — I  had  to  tell  her  something — 

It  was  a  nightmare  and  an  aneurism; 

And  so,  or  partly  so,  I'll  say  it  was. 

The  last  without  the  first  will  be  enough 

For  the  newspapers  and  the  undertaker; 

Yet  if  we  doctors  were  not  all  immune 

From  death,  disease,  and  curiosity, 

My  diagnosis  would  be  sorry  for  me. 

He  died,  you  know,  because  he  was  afraid — 

And  he  had  been  afraid  for  a  long  time; 

And  we  who  knew  him  well  would  all  agree 

To  fancy  there  was  rather  more  than  fear. 

The  door  was  locked  inside — they  broke  it  in 

To  find  him — but  she  heard  him  when  it  came. 

There  are  no  signs  of  any  visitors, 

Or  need  of  them.    If  I  were  not  a  child 

Of  science,  I  should  say  it  was  the  devil. 

I  don't  believe  it  was  another  woman, 

And  surely  it  was  not  another  man." 


MR.  FLOOD'S  PARTY 

OLD  Eben  Flood,  climbing  alone  one  night 
Over  the  hill  between  the  town  below 
And  the  forsaken  upland  hermitage 
That  held  as  much  as  he  should  ever  know 
On  earth  again  of  home,  paused  warily. 
The  road  was  his  with  not  a  native  near; 
And  Eben,  having  leisure,  said  aloud, 
For  no  man  else  in  Tilbury  Town  to  hear : 
573 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

"Well,  Mr.  Flood,  we  have  the  harvest  moon 
Again,  and  we  may  not  have  many  more; 
The  bird  is  on  the  wing,  the  poet  says, 
And  you  and  I  have  said  it  here  before. 
Drink  to  the  bird."    He  raised  up  to  the  light 
The  jug  that  he  had  gone  so  far  to  fill, 
And  answered  huskily:     "Well,  Mr.  Flood, 
Since  you  propose  it,  I  believe  I  will." 

Alone,  as  if  enduring  to  the  end 

A  valiant  armor  of  scarred  hopes  outworn, 

He  stood  there  in  the  middle  of  the  road 

Like  Roland's  ghost  winding  a  silent  horn. 

Below  him,  in  the  town  among  the  trees, 

Where  friends  of  other  days  had  honored  him, 

A  phantom  salutation  of  the  dead 

Rang  thinly  till  old  Eben's  eyes  were  dim. 

Then,  as  a  mother  lays  her  sleeping  child 

Down  tenderly,  fearing  it  may  awake, 

He  set  the  jug  down  slowly  at  his  feet 

With  trembling  care,  knowing  that  most  things  break ; 

And  only  when  assured  that  on  firm  earth 

It  stood,  as  the  uncertain  lives  of  men 

Assuredly  did  not,  he  paced  away, 

And  with  his  hand  extended  paused  again: 

"Well,  Mr.  Flood,  we  have  not  met  like  this 
In  a  long  time;  and  many  a  change  has  come 
To  both  of  us,  I  fear,  since  last  it  was 
We  had  a  drop  together.     Welcome  home  I" 
Convivially  returning  with  himself, 
Again  he  raised  the  jug  up  to  the  light; 
And  with  an  acquiescent  quaver  said: 
"Well,  Mr.  Flood,  if  you  insist,  I  might. 
574 


BEN  TROVATO 

"Only  a  very  little,  Mr.  Flood — 

For  auld  lang  syne.    No  more,  sir;  that  will  do." 

So,  for  the  time,  apparently  it  did, 

And  Eben  evidently  thought  so  too; 

For  soon  amid  the  silver  loneliness 

Of  night  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  sang, 

Secure,  with  only  two  moons  listening, 

Until  the  whole  harmonious  landscape  rang — 

"For  auld  lang  syne."     The  weary  throat  gave  out, 
The  last  word  wavered;  and  the  song  being  done, 
He  raised  again  the  jug  regretfully 
And  shook  his  head,  and  was  again  alone. 
There  was  not  much  that  was  ahead  of  him, 
And  there  was  nothing  in  the  town  below — 
Where  strangers  would  have  shut  the  many  doors 
That  many  friends  had  opened  long  ago. 


BEN  TROVATO 

THE  deacon  thought.    "I  know  them,"  he  began, 
"And  they  are  all  you  ever  heard  of  them — 
Allurable  to  no  sure  theorem, 
The  scorn  or  the  humility  of  man. 
You  say  'Can  I  believe  it?' — and  I  can; 
And  I'm  unwilling  even  to  condemn 
The  benefaction   of  a  stratagem 
Like  hers — and  I'm  a  Presbyterian. 

"Though  blind,  with  but  a  wandering  hour  to  live, 
He  felt  the  other  woman  in  the  fur 
That  now  the  wife  had  on.     Could  she  forgive 
All  that?    Apparently.    Her  rings  were  gone, 
575 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Of  course;  and  when  he  found  that  she  had  none, 
He  smiled — as  he  had  never  smiled  at  her." 


THE  TREE  IN  PAMELA'S  GARDEN 

PAMELA  was  too  gentle  to  deceive 

Her  roses.     "Let  the  men  stay  where  they  are," 

She  said,  "and  if  Apollo's  avatar 

Be  one  of  them,  I  shall  not  have  to  grieve." 

And  so  she  made  all  Tilbury  Town  believe 

She  sighed  a  little  more  for  the  North  Star 

Than  over  men,  and  only  in  so  far 

As  she  was  in  a  garden  was  like  Eve. 

Her  neighbors — doing  all  that  neighbors  can 
To  make  romance  of  reticence  meanwhile — 
Seeing  that  she  had  never  loved  a  man, 
Wished  Pamela  had  a  cat,  or  a  small  bird, 
And  only  would  have  wondered  at  her  smile 
Could  they  have  seen  that  she  had  overheard. 


VAIN  GRATUITIES 

NEVER  was  there  a  man  much  uglier 
In  eyes  of  other  women,  or  more  grim: 
"The  Lord  has  filled  her  chalice  to  the  brim, 
So  let  us  pray  she's  a  philosopher," 
They  said;  and  there  was  more  they  said  of  hcr- 
Deeming  it,  after  twenty  years  with  him, 
No  wonder  that  she  kept  her  figure  slim 
And  always  made  you  think  of  lavender. 
576 


LOST  ANCHORS 

But  she,  demure  as  ever,  and  as  fair, 

Almost,  as  they  remembered  her  before 

She  found  him,  would  have  laughed  had  she  been  there; 

And  all  they  said  would  have  been  heard  no  more 

Than  foam  that  washes  on  an  island  shore 

Where  there  are  none  to  listen  or  to  care. 


JOB  THE  REJECTED 

THEY  met,  and  overwhelming  her  distrust 

With  penitence,  he  praised  away  her  fear; 

They  married,  and  Job  gave  him  half  a  year 

To  wreck  the  temple,  as  we  knew  he  must. 

He  fumbled  hungrily  to  readjust 

A  fallen  altar,  but  the  road  was  clear 

By  which  it  was  her  will  to  disappear 

That  evening  when  Job  found  him  in  the  dust. 

Job  would  have  deprecated  such  a  way 
Of  heaving  fuel  on  a  sacred  fire, 
Yet  even  the  while  we  saw  it  going  out, 
Hardly  was  Job  to  find  his  hour  to  shout; 
And  Job  was  not,  so  far  as  we  could  say, 
The  confirmation  of  her  soul's  desire. 


LOST  ANCHORS 

LIKE  a  dry  fish  flung  inland  far  from  shore, 
There  lived  a  sailor,  warped  and  ocean-browned, 
Who  told  of  an  old  vessel,  harbor-drowned 
And  out  of  mind  a  century  before, 

577 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

Where  divers,  on  descending  to  explore 

A  legend  that  had  lived  its  way  around 

The  world  of  ships,  in  the  dark  hulk  had  found 

Anchors,  which  had  been  seized  and  seen  no  more. 

Improving  a  dry  leisure  to  invest 
Their  misadventure  with  a  manifest 
Analogy  that  he  may  read  who  runs, 
The  sailor  made  it  old  as  ocean  grass — 
Telling  of  much  that  once  had  come  to  pass 
With  him,  whose  mother  should  have  had  no  sons. 

RECALLED 

LONG  after  there  were  none  of  them  alive 
About  the  place — where  there  is  now  no  place 
But  a  walled  hole  where  fruitless  vines  embrace 
Their  parent  skeletons  that  yet  survive 
In  evil  thorns — none  of  us  could  arrive 
At  a  more  cogent  answer  to  their  ways 
Than  one  old  Isaac  in  his  latter  days 
Had  humor  or  compassion  to  contrive. 

I  mentioned  them,  and  Isaac  shook  his  head : 
"The  Power  that  you  call  yours  and  I  call  mine 
Extinguished  in  the  last  of  them  a  line 
That  Satan  would  have  disinherited. 
When  we  are  done  with  all  but  the  Divine, 
We  die."    And  there  was  no  more  to  be  said. 


MODERNITIES 

SMALL  knowledge  have  we  that  by  knowledge  met 
May  not  some  day  be  quaint  as  any  told 
In  almagest  or  chronicle  of  old, 
578 


AFTERTHOUGHTS 

Whereat  we  smile  because  we  are  as  yet 
The  last — though  not  the  last  who  may  forget 
What  cleavings   and   ahrasions  manifold 
Have  marked  an  armor  that  was  never  scrolled 
Before  for  human  glory  and  regret. 

With  infinite  unseen  enemies  in  the  way 

We  have  encountered  the  intangible, 

To  vanquish  where  our  fathers,  who  fought  well, 

Scarce  had  assumed  endurance  for  a  day; 

Yet  we  shall  have  our  darkness,  even  as  they, 

And  there  shall  be  another  tale  to  tell. 


AFTERTHOUGHTS 

WE  parted  where  the  old  gas-lamp  still  burned 
Under  the  wayside  maple  and  walked  on, 
Into  the  dark,  as  we  had  always  done; 
And  I,  no  doubt,  if  he  had  not  returned, 
Might  yet  be  unaware  that  he  had  earned 
More  than  earth  gives  to  many  who  have  won 
More  than  it  has  to  give  when  they  are  gone — 
As  duly  and  indelibly  I  learned. 

The  sum  of  all  that  he  came  back  to  say 
Was  little  then,  and  would  be  less  today: 
With  him  there  were  no  Delphic  heights  to  climb, 
Yet  his  were  somehow  nearer  the  sublime. 
He  spoke,  and  went  again  by  the  old  way — 
Not  knowing  it  would  be  for  the  last  time. 


579 


CAPUT  MORTUUM 

NOT  even  if  with  a  wizard  force  I  might 
Have  summoned  whomsoever  I  would  name, 
Should  anyone  else  have  come  than  he  who  came, 
Uncalled,  to  share  with  me  my  fire  that  night ; 
For  though  I  should  have  said  that  all  was  right, 
Or  right  enough,  nothing  had  been  the  same 
As  when  I  found  him  there  before  the  flame, 
Always  a  welcome  and  a  useful  sight. 

Unfailing  and  exuberant  all  the  time, 

Having  no  gold  he  paid  with  golden  rhyme, 

Of  older  coinage  than  his  old  defeat, 

A  debt  that  like  himself  was  obsolete 

In  Art's  long  hazard,  where  no  man  may  choose 

Whether  he  play  to  win  or  toil  to  lose. 


MONADNOCK  THROUGH  THE  TREES 

BEFORE  there  was  in  Egypt  any  sound 
Of  those  who  reared  a  more  prodigious  means 
For  the  self -heavy  sleep  of  kings  and  queens 
Than  hitherto  had  mocked  the  most  renowned,- 
Unvisioned  here  and  waiting  to  be  found, 
Alone,  amid  remote  and  older  scenes, 
You  loomed  above  ancestral  evergreens 
Before  there  were  the  first  of  us  around. 

And  when  the  last  of  us,  if  we  know  how, 
See  farther  from  ourselves  than  we  do  now, 
Assured  with  other  sight  than  heretofore 
580 


MANY  ARE  CALLED 

That  we  have  done  our  mortal  best  and  worst, — 
Your  calm  will  be  the  same  as  when  the  first 
Assyrians  went  howling  south  to  war. 


THE  LONG  RACE 

UP  the  old  hill  to  the  old  house  again 
Where  fifty  years  ago  the  friend  was  young 
Who  should  be  waiting  somewhere  there  among 
Old  things  that  least  remembered  most  remain, 
He  toiled  on  with  a  pleasure  that  was  pain 
To  think  how  soon  asunder  would  be  flung 
The  curtain  half  a  century  had  hung 
Between  the  two  ambitions  they  had  slain. 

They  dredged  an  hour  for  words,  and  then  were  done. 
"Good-bye!  .  .  .  You  have  the  same  old  weather-vane — 
Your  little  horse  that's  always  on  the  run." 
And  all  the  way  down  back  to  the  next  train, 
Down  the  old  hill  to  the  old  road  again, 
It  seemed  as  if  the  little  horse  had  won. 


MANY  ARE  CALLED 

THE  Lord  Apollo,  who  has  never  died, 
Still  holds  alone  his  immemorial  reign, 
Supreme  in  an  impregnable  domain 
That  with  his  magic  he  has  fortified; 
And  though  melodious  multitudes  have  tried 
In  ecstasy,  in  anguish,  and  in  vain, 

581 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

With  invocation  sacred  and  profane 

To  lure  him,  even  the  loudest  are  outside. 

Only  at  unconjectured  intervals, 
By  will  of  him  on  whom  no  man  may  gaze, 
By  word  of  him  whose  law  no  man  has  read, 
A  questing  light  may  rift  the  sullen  walls, 
To  cling  where  mostly  its  infrequent  rays 
Fall  golden  on  the  patience  of  the  dead. 


REMBRANDT  TO  REMBRANDT 

(AMSTERDAM,  1645) 

AND  there  you  are  again,  now  as  you  are. 

Observe  yourself  as  you  discern  yourself 

In  your  discredited  ascendency; 

Without  your  velvet  or  your  feathers  now, 

Commend  your  new  condition  to  your  fate, 

And  your  conviction  to  the  sieves  of  time. 

Meanwhile  appraise  yourself,  Rembrandt  van  Ryn, 

Now  as  you  are — formerly  more  or  less 

Distinguished  in  the  civil  scenery, 

And  once  a  painter.    There  you  are  again, 

Where  you  may  see  that  you  have  on  your  shoulders 

No  lovelier  burden  for  an  ornament 

Than  one  man's  head  that's  yours.    Praise  be  to  God 

That  you  have  that ;  for  you  are  like  enough 

To  need  it  now,  my  friend,  and  from  now  on; 

For  there  are  shadows  and  obscurities 

Immediate  or  impending  on  your  view, 

That  may  be  worse  than  you  have  ever  painted 

For  the  bewildered  and  unhappy  scorn 

582 


REMBRANDT  TO  REMBRANDT 

Of  injured  Hollanders   in  Amsterdam 
Who  cannot  find  their  fifty  florins'  worth 
Of  Holland  face  where  you  have  hidden  it 
In  your  new  golden  shadow  that  excites  them, 
Or  see  that  when  the  Lord  made  color  and  light 
He  made  not  one  thing  only,  or  believe 
That  shadows  are  not  nothing.     Saskia  said, 
Before  she  died,  how  they  would  swear  at  you, 
And  in  commiseration  at  themselves. 
She  laughed  a  little,  too,  to  think  of  them — 
And  then  at  me.  .  .  .  That  was  before  she  died. 

And  I  could  wonder,  as  I  look  at  you, 
There  as  I  have  you  now,  there  as  you  are, 
Or  nearly  so  as  any  skill  of  mine 
Has  ever  caught  you  in  a  bilious  mirror, — 
Yes,  I  could  wonder  long,  and  with  a  reason, 
If  all  but  everything  achievable 
In  me  were  not  achieved  and  lost  already, 
Like  a  fool's  gold.    But  you  there  in  the  glass, 
And  you  there  on  the  canvas,  have  a  sort 
Of  solemn  doubt  about  it;  and  that's  well 
For  Rembrandt  and  for  Titus.    All  that's  left 
Of  all  that  was  is  here ;  and  all  that's  here 
Is  one  man  who  remembers,  and  one  child 
Beginning  to  forget.    One,  two,  and  three, 
The  others  died,  and  then — then  Saskia  died; 
And  then,  so  men  believe,  the  painter  died. 
So  men  believe.    So  it  all  comes  at  once. 
And  here's  a  fellow  painting  in  the  dark, —    "*• 
A  loon  who  cannot  see  that  he  is  dead 
Before  God  lets  him  die.    He  paints  away 
At  the  impossible,  so  Holland  has  it, 
For  venom  or  for  spite,  or  for  defection, 
Or  else  for  God  knows  what.    Well,  if  God  knows, 
583 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

And  Eembrandt  knows,  it  matters  not  so  much 
'    What  Holland  knows  or  cares.    If  Holland  wants 
Its  heads  all  in  a  row,  and  all  alike, 
There's  Franz  to  do  them  and  to  do  them  well — 
Rat-catchers,  archers,  or  apothecaries, 
And  one  as  like  a  rabbit  as  another. 
Value  received,  and  every  Dutchman  happy. 
All's  one  to  Franz,  and  to  the  rest  of  them, — 
Their  ways  being  theirs,  are  theirs. — But  you,  my  friend, 
If  I  have  made  you  something  as  you  are, 
Will  need  those  jaws  and  eyes  and  all  the  fight 
And  fire  that's  in  them,  and  a  little  more, 
To  take  you  on  and  the  world  after  you ; 
For  now  you  fare  alone,  without  the  fashion 
To  sing  you  back  and  fling  a  flower  or  two 
At  your  accusing  feet.    Poor  Saskia  saw 
This  coming  that  has  come,  and  with  a  guile 
Of  kindliness  that  covered  half  her  doubts 
Would  give  me  gold,  and  laugh  .  .  .  before  she  died. 

And  if  I  see  the  road  that  you  are  going, 
You  that  are  not  so  jaunty  as  aforetime, 
God  knows  if  she  were  not  appointed  well 
To  die.    She  might  have  wearied  of  it  all 
Before  the  worst  was  over,  or  begun. 
A  woman  waiting  on  a  man's  avouch 
Of  the  invisible,  may  not  wait  always 
Without  a  word  betweenwhiles,  or  a  dash 
Of  poison  on  his  faith.    Yes,  even  she. 
She  might  have  come  to  see  at  last  with  others, 
J  And  then  to  say  with  others,  who  say  more, 
That  you  are  groping  on  a  phantom  trail 
Determining  a  dusky  way  to  nowhere; 
That  errors  unconfessed  and  obstinate 
Have  teemed  and  cankered  in  you  for  so  long 
584 


REMBRANDT  TO  REMBRANDT 

That  even  your  eyes  are  sick,  and  you  see  light 
Only  because  you  dare  not  see  the  dark 
That  is  around  you  and  ahead  of  you. 
She  might  have  come,  by  ruinous  estimation 
Of  old  applause  and  outworn  vanities, 
To  clothe  you  over  in  a  shroud  of  dreams, 
And  so  be  nearer  to  the  counterfeit 
Of  her  invention  than  aware  of  yours. 
She  might,  as  well  as  any,  by  this  time, 
Unwillingly  and  eagerly  have  bitten 
Another  devil's-apple  of  unrest, 
And  so,  by  some  attendant  artifice 
Or  other,  might  anon  have  had  you  sharing 
A  taste  that  would  have  tainted  everything, 
And  so  had  been  for  two,  instead  of  one, 
The  taste  of  death  in  life — which  is  the  food        • 
Of  art  that  has  betrayed  itself  alive 
And  is  a  food  of  hell.    She  might  have  heard 
Unhappily  the  temporary  noise 
Of  louder  names  than  yours,  and  on  frail  urns 
That  hardly  will  ensure  a  dwelling-place 
For  even  the  dust  that  may  be  left  of  them, 
She  might,  and  angrily,  as  like  as  not, 
Look  soon  to  find  your  name,  not  finding  it. 
She  might,  like  many  another  born  for  joy 
And  for  sufficient  fulness  of  the  hour, 
Go  famishing  by  now,  and  in  the  eyes 
Of  pitying  friends  and  dwindling  satellites 
Be  told  of  no  uncertain  dereliction 
Touching  the  cold  offence  of  my  decline. 
And  even  if  this  were  so,  and  she  were  here 
Again  to  make  a  fact  of  all  my  fancy, 
How  should  I  ask  of  her  to  see  with  me 
Through  night  where  many  a  time  I  seem  in  vain 
To  seek  for  new  assurance  of  a  gleam 
585 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

That  comes  at  last,  and  then,  so  it  appears, 
Only  for  you  and  me — and  a  few  more, 
Perchance,  albeit  their  faces  are  not  many 
Among  the  ruins  that  are  now  around  us. 
That  was  a  fall;  my  friend,  we  had  together — 
Or  rather  it  was  my  house,  mine  alone, 
That  fell,  leaving  you  safe.    Be  glad  for  that. 

/   There's  life  in  you  that  shall  outlive  my  clay 
That's  for  a  time  alive  and  will  in  time 
Be  nothing — but  not  yet.    You  that  are  there 
Where  I  have  painted  you  are  safe  enough, 
Though  I  see  dragons.     Verily,  that  was  a  fall- 
A  dislocating/fall,'  a  blinding  fall, 
A  fall  indeed.    But  there  are  no  bones  broken; 
And  even  the  teeth  and  eyes  that  I  make  out 
Among  the  shadows,  intermittently, 
Show  not  so  firm  in  their  accoutrement 
Of  terror-laden  unreality 

As  you  in  your  neglect  of  their  performance, — 
Though  for  their  season  we  must  humor  them 
For  what  they  are :  devils  undoubtedly, 
But  not  so  parlous  and  implacable 
In  their  undoing  of  poor  human  triumph 
As  easy  fashion — or  brief  novelty 
That  ails  even  while  it  grows,  and  like  sick  fruit 
Falls  down  anon  to  an  indifferent  earth 
To  break  with  inward  rot.    I  say  all  this, 
And  I  concede,  in  honor  of  your  silence, 
A  waste  of  innocent  facility 
.In  tints  of  other  colors  than  are  mine. 
I  cannot  paint  with  words,  but  there's  a  time 

J  For  most  of  us  when  words  are  all  we  have 
To  serve  our  stricken  souls.    And  here  you  say, 
"Be  careful,  or  you  may  commit  your  soul 
Soon  to  the  very  devil  of  your  denial." 
586 


REMBRANDT  TO  REMBRANDT 

I  might  have  wagered  on  you  to  say  that, 
Knowing  that  I  believe  in  you  too  surely 
To  spoil  you  with  a  kick  or  paint  you  over. 

No,  my  good  friend,  Mynheer  Rembrandt  van  Ryn- 

Sometime  a  personage  in  Amsterdam, 

But  now  not  much — I  shall  not  give  myself 

To  be.  the  sport  of  any  dragon-spawn 

Of  Holland,  or  elsewhere.    Holland  was  hell 

Not  long  ago,  and  there  were  dragons  then 

More  to  be  fought  than  any  of  these  we  see 

That  we  may  foster  now.    They  are  not  real, 

But  not  for  that  the  less  to  be  regarded; 

For  there  are  slimy  tyrants  born  of  nothing 

That  harden  slowly  into  seeming  life 

And  have  the  strength  of  madness.    I  confess, 

Accordingly,  the  wisdom  of  your  care 

That  I  look  out  for  them.    Whether  I  would 

Or  not,  I  must ;  and  here  we  are  as  one 

With  our  necessity.    For  though  you  loom 

A  little  harsh  in  your  respect  of  time 

And  circumstance,  and  of  ordained  eclipse, 

We  know  together  of  a  golden  flood 

That  with  its  overflow  shall  drown  away 

The  dikes  that  held  it;  and  we  know  thereby 

That  in  its  rising  light  there,  lives  a  fire 

No  devils  that  are  lodging  here  in  Holland 

Shall  put  out  wholly,  or  much  agitate, 

Except  in  unofficial  preparation 

They  put  out  first  the  sun.    It's  well  enough 

To  think  of  them;  wherefore  I  thank  you,  sir, 

Alike  for  your  remembrance  and  attention. 

But  there  are  demons  that  are  longer-lived 
Than  doubts  that  have  a  brief  and  e.vil  term 

587 


COLLECTED  POEMS 

To  congregate  among  the  futile  shards 
And  architraves  of  eminent  collapse. 
They  are  a  many-favored  family, 
All  told,  with  not  a  misbegotten  dwarf 
Among  the  rest  that  I  can  love  so  little 
As  one  occult  abortion  in  especial 
Who  perches  on  a  picture  (when  it's  done) 
And  says,  "What  of  it,  Rembrandt,  if  you  do  ?" 
This  incubus  would  seem  to  be  a  sort 
Of  chorus,  indicating,  for  our  good, 
The  silence  of  the  few  friends  that  are  left: 
"What  of  it,  Rembrandt,  even  if  you  know  ?" 
It  says  again ;  "and  you  don't  know  for  certain. 
What  if  in  fifty  or  a  hundred  years 
They  find  you  out?    You  may  have  gone  meanwhile 
So  greatly  to  the  dogs  that  you'll  not  care 
Much  what  they  find.    If  this  be  all  you  are — 
This  unaccountable  aspiring  insect — 
You'll  sleep  as  easy  in  oblivion 
As  any  sacred  monk  or  parricide; 
And  if,  as  you  conceive,  you  are  eternal, 
Your  soul  may  laugh,  remembering  (if  a  soul 
Remembers)  your  befrenzied  aspiration 
To  smear  with  certain  ochres  and  some  oil 
A  few  more  perishable  ells  of  cloth, 
And  once  or  twice,  to  square  your  vanity, 
Prove  it  was  you  alone  that  should  achieve 
A  mortal  eye — that  may,  no  less,  tomorrow 
Show  an  immortal  reason  why  today 
Men  see  no  more.    And  what's  a  mortal  eye 
More  than  a  mortal  herring,  who  has  eyes 
As  well  as  you  ?    Why  not  paint  herrings,  Rembrandt  ? 
Or  if  not  herrings,  why  not  a  split  beef? 
Perceive  it  only  in  its  unalloyed 
Integrity,  and  you  may  find  in  it 
588 


REMBRANDT  TO  REMBRANDT 

A  beautified  accomplishment  no  less 

Indigenous  than  one  that  appertains 

To  gentlemen  and  ladies  eating  it. 

The  same  God  planned  and  made  you,  beef  and  human ; 

And  one,  but  for  His  whim,  might  be  the  other." 

That's  how  he  says  it,  Rembrandt,  if  you  listen ; 
He  says  it,  and  he  goes.    And  then,  sometimes, 
There  comes  another  spirit  in  his  place — 
One  with  a  more  engaging  argument, 
And  with  a  softer  note  for  saying  truth 
Not  soft.    Whether  it  be  the  truth  or  not, 
I  name  it  so;  for  there's  a  string  in  ine 
Somewhere  that  answers — which  is  natural, 
Since  I  am  but  a  living  instrument 
Played  on  by  powers  that  are  invisible. 
"You  might  go  faster,  if  not  quite  so  far," 
He  says,  "if  in  your  vexed  economy 
There  lived  a  faculty  for  saying  yes 
And  meaning  no,  and  then  for  doing  neither; 
But  since  Apollo  sees  it  otherwise, 
Your  Dutchmen,  who  are  swearing  at  you  still 
For  your  pernicious  filching  of  their  florins, 
May  likely  curse  you  down  their  generation, 
Not  having  understood  there  was  no  malice 
Or  grinning  evil  in  a  golden  shadow 
That  shall  outshine  their  slight  identities 
And  hold  their  faces  when  their  names  are  nothing. 
But  this,  as  you  discern,  or  should  by  now 
Surmise,  for  you  is  neither  here  nor  there: 
You  made  your  picture  as  your  demon  willed  it ; 
That's  about  all  of  that.    Now  make  as  many 
As  may  be  to  be  made, — for  so  you  will, 
Whatever  the  toll  may  be,  and  hold  your  light 
So  that  you  see,  without  so  much  to  blind  you 
589 


COLLECTED  pOEMS 

As  even  the  cobweb-flash  of  a  misgiving, 
Assured  and  certain  that  if  you  see  right 
Others  will  have  to  see — albeit  their  seeing 
Shall  irk  them  out  of  their  serenity 
For  such  a  time  as  umbrage  may  require. 
But  there  are  many  reptiles  in  the  night 
That  now  is  coming  on,  and  they  are  hungry ; 
And  there's  a  Rembrandt  to  be  satisfied 
Who  never  will  be,  howsoever  much 
He  be  assured  of  an  ascendency 
That  has  not  yet  a  shadow's  worth  of  sound 
Where  Holland  has  its  ears.    And  what  of  that? 
Have  you  the  weary  leisure  or  sick  wit 
That  breeds  of  its  indifference  a  false  envy 
That  is  the  vermin  on  accomplishment? 
Are  you  inaugurating  your  new  service 
With  fasting  for  a  food  you  would  not  eat? 
You  are  the  servant,  Rembrandt,  not  the  master, — 
But  you  are  not  assigned  with  other  slaves 
That  in  their  freedom  are  the  most  in  fear. 
One  of  the  few  that  are  so  fortunate 
As  to  be  told  their  task  and  to  be  given 
A  skill  to  do  it  with  a  tool  too  keen 
For  timid  safety,  bow  your  elected  head 
*    Under  the  stars  tonight,  and  whip  your  devils 
Each  to  his  nest  in  hell.    Forget  your  days, 
And  so  forgive  the  years  that  may  not  be 
So  many  as  to  be  more  than  you  may  need 
For  your  particular  consistency 
In  your  peculiar  folly.    You  are  counting 
Some  fewer  years  than  forty  at  your  heels; 
And  they  have  not  pursued  your  gait  so  fast 
As  your  oblivion — which  has  beaten  them, 
And  rides  now  on  your  neck  like  an  old  man 
With  iron  shins  and  fingers.    Let  him  ride 
590 


REMBRANDT  TO  REMBRANDT 

(You  haven't  so  much  to  say  now  about  that), 
And  in  a  proper  season  let  him  run. 
You  may  be  dead  then,  even  as  you  may  now 
Anticipate  some  other  mortal  strokes 
Attending  your  felicity ;  and  for  that, 
Oblivion  heretofore  has  done  some  running 
Away  from  graves,  and  will  do  more  of  it." 

"V 

That's  how  it  is  your  wiser  spirit  speaks, 
Eembrandt.    If  you  believe  him,  why  complain  ? 
If  not,  why  paint?    And  why,  in  any  event, 
Look  back  for  the  old  joy  and  the  old  roses, 
Or  the  old  fame?    They  are  all  gone  together, 
And  Saskia  with  them;  and  with  her  left  out, 
They  would  avail  no  more  now  than  one  strand 
Of  Samson's  hair  wound  round  his  little  finger 
Before  the  temple  fell.    Nor  more  are  you 
In  any  sudden  danger  to  forget 
That  in  Apollo's  house  there  are  no  clocks    / 
Or  calendars  to  say  for  you  in  time 
How  far  you  are  away  from  Amsterdam, 
Or  that  the  one  same  law  that  bids  you  see 
Where  now  you  see  alone  forbids  in  turn 
Your  light  from  Holland  eyes  till  Holland  ears 
Are  told  of  it ;  for  that  way,  my  good  fellow, 
Is  one  way  more  to  death.    If  at  the  first 
Of  your  long  turning,  which  may  still  be  longer 
Than  even  your  faith  has  measured  it,  you  sigh 
For  distant  welcome  that  may  not  be  seen, 
Or  wayside  shouting  that  will  not  be  heard, 
You  may  as  well  accommodate  your  greatness 
To  the  convenience  of  an  easy  ditch, 
And,  anchored  there  with  all  your  widowed  gold, 
Forget  your  darkness  in  the  dark,  and  hear 
No  longer  the  cold  wash  of  Holland  scorn. 
591 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip — Series  4 


College 
Library 


UCLA-College  Library 

PS  3535  R56  1921 


L  005  747  156  7 


A    001206317    8 


